8x02 A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
by Shelley G
Summary: Sequel to 8x01 Winterfell. The Long Night is coming, it's practically here. Tensions rise and secrets come to light within the walls of Winterfell. Episode two of a reimagined season 8.
1. Chapter 1: Jaime

"When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story about the man who murdered our father. Who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor." Daenerys spoke slowly and clearly, despite the rage that burned wildly in her eyes.

It took every ounce of courage Jaime possessed not to break eye contact with the small woman. Those eyes were too familiar, too much like her father's.

Unarmed, one-handed, and with hostile lords and ladies before him and to his sides and a troop of unsullied at his back he had never been so completely surrounded and defenseless. He had not even felt so completely defeated even when imprisoned by Robb Stark. He was perhaps as defenseless on the road to Harrenhall after the loss of his hand, but his fever had burned so hot then that he couldn't think, let alone concern himself with his unfortunate predicament. By the time his fever had passed, Lord Bolton had recognized his value and he was no longer a defenseless prisoner, but a valuable guest.

"He told me other stories as well." The little dragon queen continued. "About all the things we would do to that man once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp."

She let the weight of her threat change heavy in the great hall. While not eager for it, Jaime was not afraid to die. He had never feared death, not really. He had feared failing to protect those he loved far more than he had ever feared death or any punishment that might be waiting for him thereafter.

"Your father was an evil man." Jaime said.

"My father was an evil man." Daenerys agreed. "But he was your king."

Jaime considered the charge she'd leveled against him and he had no defense against it. The Mad King had been a terrible ruler, but he was still a king and Jaime had been one of his King's Guard. Six other men had stood honorably by while the Mad King ordered the death of an entire city. Six other men kept their honor while Jaime sacrificed his own for the lives of thousands of innocents.

"He was my king." Jaime agreed. "And he intended to murder half a million people rather than surrender his throne. So tell me, _Your Grace_, when does a ruler forfeit their right to their throne?"

Daenerys stared at him for a long moment, her jaw tense in barely contained fury.

"Your sister pledged to send her army north." Daenerys said, changing the subject after a long moment.

Jaime felt a surge of shame for his sister's deception. "She did."

"I don't see an army." Daenerys made a show of looking around. "I see one man… with one hand."

The disgust in her eyes was clear as they drifted down to his golden appendage.

"It appears your sister lied to me." Daenerys practically snarled.

Jaime glanced over at his brother who met his gaze with an uneasy expression that did not off any reassurance.

"She lied to me as well." Jaime said, returning his attention to the queen. "She never had any intention of sending her army north. She has Euron Greyjoy's fleet and 20,000 fresh troops. The Golden Company from Essos, bought and paid for."

He saw the little queen flinch at this revelation, a look passing between her and Tyrion. If she'd imagined that taking King's Landing would be a simple matter, that mistaken impression was now shattered.

"Even if we defeat the dead," Jaime continued, "she'll have more than enough to destroy the survivors."

"We?" Daenerys challenged.

"I promised to fight for the living." Jaime said. "I intend to keep that promise."

Tyrion stepped forward drawing the queen's ire.

"Your Grace, I know my brother." The imp said. Jaime felt a fresh surge of love for his little brother.

"Like you knew your sister?" The queen's tone was so cutting, a lesser man would have shriveled before her. But Tyrion was not a lesser man. Smaller, yes, but not lesser.

"He came here alone, knowing full well how he'd be received." Tyrion pressed on. "Why would he do that if he weren't telling the truth?"

"Perhaps he trusts his little brother to defend him, right up to the moment he slits my throat."Daenerys sneered at her Hand.

"You're right." Sansa Stark spoke up, her ice-cold gaze cutting into Jaime.

Daenerys looked at the Lady of Winterfell, clearly caught off guard by this support. Apparently, cooperation among the invading queen and the North was not as seamless as the Targaryen would like people to believe.

"We can't trust him." Sansa continued. "He attacked my father in the streets. He tried to destroy my house and my family, the same as he did yours."

Jaime found it harder to meet the Stark girl's gaze than that of the dragon queen. Daenerys was little more than a name to him, but he knew the Stark girl. He'd seen firsthand the suffering inflicted on a once innocent child by him and his.

"Do you want me to apologize?" He asked. "I won't."

Sansa raised an eyebrow at this. He couldn't tell if she was impressed or amused by his stubborn courage. Other men would likely grovel for their lives at this point, recognizing that the tides were firmly turned against them, but Jaime had never been like other men and he would not grovel for forgiveness.

"We were at war." He said, speaking to the Stark girl, because her opinion mattered far more to him than the Mad King's daughter's. "Everything I did, I did for my house and my family. I'd do it all again."

_At least, most of it._ He thought. There was a thing or two he whined he could take back, but this was not the time or place to admit any such thing.

"The things we do for love." Bran said, drawing the attention of everyone in the hall.

Jaime faltered at that. He had no doubt that the crippling of Bran Stark was one sin the Starks would not forgive. With a single sentence, Bran could sign his death order.

But he said nothing else.

"So why have you abandoned your house and family now?" Daenerys asked.

"Because this goes beyond loyalty." Jaime glanced over at Brienne. He'd known exactly where she sat since she'd entered the hall. The hulking woman was a difficult figure to miss, but it was more than that. Even when he wasn't looking at her, he could feel her presence, like there was a string between them that had pulled taunt when she'd left King's Landing, drawing him after her. Now she was so close, but this time separated by all his past sins. She knew most, if not all of them, but still he felt shame to have her here, bearing witness to the full weight of them. "This is about survival."

He heard movement behind him and suddenly the Maid of Tarth stood between him and his judge, jury, and would be executioners.

"You don't know me well, Your Grace." Brienne addressed the queen, her voice shaking just slightly. "But I know Ser Jaime."

His heart sped up at her words. She was speaking for him. After all he'd done, after all she knew, she still thought him worthy of her words on his behalf. He looked down, for the first time truly feeling unworthy.

"He is a man of honor." She said.

Jaime swallowed hard at this praise from the only person who's opinion he counted for anything on the subject.

"I was his captor once." Brienne continued. "But when we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. And lost his hand because of it."

_The things we do for love._ His own words swam to the surface of his mind, unbidden.

Brienne turned her attention to Sansa, who's gaze was far softer when directed at the tall blonde.

"Without him, my lady, you would not be alive." Brienne said. "He armed me, armored me, and sent me to find you and bring you home because he'd sworn an oath to your mother."

The hardness in the lines of Sansa's face softened almost imperceptibly, but the queen's expression roiled with rage.

"You vouch for him?" The Stark girl asked.

"I do."

Jaime studied the sliver of the side of Brienne's face that he could see from his position. Even uglier in daylight, he'd once said. But she didn't seem so homely now. In fact, by this light she could be a bold and beautiful knight. A figure minstrels would write ballads about. Brienne the Beauty.

"You would fight beside him?" Sansa pressed.

"I would." Brienne confirmed.

Jaime longed to reach out and squeeze her hand, to show his gratitude for her faith in him. Cersei had never cared about his wrongs, most of which had been committed on her behalf. Tyrion had loved him to much not to forgive him even his blackest deeds. But Brienne… Brienne had seen the beast the Seven Kingdoms despised. She had seen the man without honor. And she had taken the time to see the man beneath the misdeeds.

"I trust you with my life." Sansa said, after careful consideration. "If you trust him with yours, we should let him stay."

Fury blazed in the Dragon Queen's eyes as she looked at the red-haired beauty.

Brienne bowed her head respectfully and returned to her seat.

"What does the Warden of the North say about it?" Daenerys asked, looking to Ned Stark's bastard. He had the look of the Stark's far more than Ned's true born daughter.

Jon Snow studied Jaime with something close to compassion.

"We need every man we can get." He said.

"Very well." The queen conceded and gave the unsullied commander who had relieved Jaime of his sword a look.

Taking the queen's unspoken command, an unsullied approached Jaime with Widow's Wail in hand, pushing it into Jaime's hand with barely contained hostility.

Jaime bowed to the queen. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Daenerys stood abruptly, her beautiful face twisted in a frightful expression. The rest of the hall rose in an echo of her movement. She looked at Jon Snow as though he had betrayed her. But if Jon noticed her fury, it didn't show, as he watched Sansa, followed by Brienne, sweep from the hall.

Jaime watched Brienne leave. She looked back at him and for a brief moment he had the urge to follow, before the string between them pulled too tight again, but his gaze fell on Bran and the urge dissipated.

* * *

Jaime wandered aimlessly through the halls of Winterfell. The place was dimmer, grimmer than he remembered. Regret burned like bile in his throat for the part he'd played in the fall of the Starks. When Robert and Cersei had arrived in the North to replace the conveniently deceased Jon Arryn with Ned Stark as hand of the king, they'd arrived in a castle innocent of the political intrigue and manipulation of the South.

The Starks had been happy. The Stark children had been just that… children. He'd stolen that from each of them the moment he'd pushed Bran Stark from the window of the tower. At the time, he didn't see any other way. It was Cersei of the boy. If the boy spoke the truth of what he'd seen it would have been not only Cersei's death, but his own and that of their children. Truth be told, even now, he didn't see another way, but he no longer felt so certain that it had been worth the price.

He found his way back to the tower where it had all began. It looked almost the same. A little more crumbled, with snow drifting down through holes in the roof, dusting the room with a light coating of what might have been ash, if not for the chill biting at his nose. The ash of all the innocent lives that had been sacrificed for the sake of his selfish love for his sister.

He knew he'd fucked Cersei on this very floor, but he'd fucked her so many times that he couldn't remember anything special about the moment. Funny how often the moments that change everything seem so meaningless in hindsight. And for that meaningless moment of passion, he'd set in motion all the blood shed that had followed. He set in motion the death of all of his children and so many more.

He could now see the sum of his choices and he knew with certainty the price had not been worth it.

"Ser Jaime."

Jaime jumped, pulled from his thoughts. He looked around and found Podrick standing in the doorway of the tower.

"How did you find me?" He asked.

The squire shifted uneasily. "I followed you, Ser."

He studied the boy… no, no longer a boy and gave him a tight smile.

"I see you've managed to keep our lady safe." He said with a chuckle. "I'm sure she didn't make it an easy task."

"Lady Brienne keeps herself safe." Pod said.

Jaime gave a soft chuckle. "I suppose that's true."

He walked to the window stared out at the blanket of snow beyond. Even from this tower, he could hear the preparations for the battle to come. His left hand drifted to the hilt of Widow's Wail. The dead were coming. He knew what was coming when he left King's Landing to follow Brienne North…. His mind tripped over the admission.

_Fuck loyalty. _

Jaime told himself that he was coming North to keep his word, because he'd sworn to fight for the living, but that was only a part of it. He'd come North because Brienne heard him make that oath. He could stand the world thinking him an Oathbreaker, but not her.

"Is she well?" Jaime asked.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" Pod asked.

Jaime glanced at the squire and shook his head as he laughed. "I don't think she'd take kindly to distractions."

"I think there's some distractions she wouldn't mind so much." Pod gave his crooked smile. "She and I… We'll be out in the yard training. Should you change your mind." Pod gave a quick dip of his head and ducked out of the tower.

* * *

**And we're back! Because apparently I can't go more than 24 hrs without posting before the review withdrawals kick in... Thank you to everyone who is still with me for Episode 2! I'm writing as quickly as my crazy life allows, but I can't promise these daily updates will last forever! But in the meantime, what do we say to the God of Writer's Block? _Not today!_**

**Please review, it keeps me motivated!**


	2. Chapter 2: Tyrion

**Just in case anyone has forgotten, I own nothing accept the heart that D&D broke.**

* * *

The Dragon Queen's anger burned hot after Jon siding with Sansa in the great hall. If this was any indication of the things to come, Tyrion thought it would be in everyone's best interest for the women in children to begin their journey to the Neck as soon as possible, taking the inflammatory Lady Sansa with them.

Tyrion practically had to jog to keep up with the queen's brisk stride. Varys and Jorah followed at their heels, but Tyrion felt sure they were quite happy to leave the position of Hand to Tyrion along with the burning wrath that came with it.

"Either you knew Cersei was lying and let me believe otherwise, or you didn't know at all." Daenerys practically spat with contempt. "Which makes you either a traitor or a fool."

"I was a fool." Tyrion admitted, thinking of Sansa's words. _I used to think you were the smartest man in the seven kingdoms. _So had he, which was in no small part the source of his now evident failing. Cersei had played him, using his own wits against him.

"Not for the first time." Daenerys slowed to to a stop for a moment and looked at him. "Cersei still sits on the throne. If you can't help me take it back, I'll find another Hand who can."

She stormed off and it was clear that following her would be a very dangerous decision.

Tyrion glanced back at the soft bald spymaster and the war-hardened knight. Good men, the both of them. All because neither was driven by lofty ambitions. Both were motivated by love. One by the love of the realm and the other by a deep love for the woman he served. Honorable intentions, both. More men would do well to be like them, without ambitions for greatness. Ambition was a dangerous drug, after all.

"I suspect one of you will be wearing this before it's all over." Tyrion mused, tapping the pin of the hand on his chest.

* * *

Ned's bastard obviously didn't love the queen, which was bad enough, but his preference for his own sister was growing more and more obvious. While Tyrion didn't think Daenerys had openly accepted the reason behind Jon's disinterest, he was sure she had her suspicions. If those suspicions grew to certainty, he feared what the results would look like.

He had to diffuse the situation before it came to that.

He found Jon and Sansa up on the wall, deep in conversation as they looked out over the preparations for the impending battle. He drew as close as he dared, not wanting to draw their notice.

"And the wagons?" Jon asked.

"Nearly loaded." Sansa said. "The caravan will be ready to depart by first light."

"And you with it?" Jon asked.

Sansa didn't speak right away, instead she pulled him around to face her and adjusted the collar of his cloak. Once satisfied, she ran her hands over the fur, leaving them to rest over the place where his heart lived and no doubt pounded a little harder than usual, if his expression was any indication.

"I don't want to leave… _Winterfell_." She whispered so softly that Tyrion barely caught her words.

Though innocent enough, he felt dirty listening in on words obviously not meant for anyone beyond the two of them.

"And I don't want you to leave… _Winterfell_." Jon said, placing his hand over hers. "But the women will need a strong leader to guide them."

"If the castle falls, what does it matter?"

"The castle may fall and we still might win." Jon pointed out. He ran his thumb over her pale flesh for a long moment, as though struggling to find the words that he could afford to say. "I wouldn't have you in this place when the dead arrive… not for the world."

"So I'm just supposed to leave you?" Sansa's voice cracked.

His hand went immediately to her face to sooth her, but he dropped his hand, looking around for unwanted eyes.

"When the battle is done, I will come for you, I promise." He whispered.

"You can't promise that." Sansa argued. "The last time I went South…"

"It won't be like the last time." Jon vowed. "I will always come for you. Where we go, we go together."

Sansa nodded and turned back to the view of the army beyond their wall.

"I trust you." She whispered, but she said them as she would a profession of love.

Jon glanced around to make sure no one was paying them any heed before pulling her close and kissing her forehead, but it wasn't the way any brother should kiss a sister. They both closed their eyes and lingered a few seconds too long.

"I have to go." Sansa lamented.

Jon nodded and slowly stepped back. "Come to me tonight. I need to see you… before."

Sansa looked around and then nodded. "I promise."

Jon watched her as she walked away. Tyrion waited until he was sure she was well away before stepping out of his hiding place.

"You should really be more careful, Jon Snow." He warned, using the bastard's surname to remind him just how tenuous his grip on his current power was.

Jon jumped and his hand went to the hilt of his broadsword.

"No need for that," Tyrion said. "I don't mean you or your lady any harm. I never have."

"I…" Jon started.

"If you're going to try to claim that she's not your lady, you can save yourself the effort." Tyrion said. "I know better than most what _brotherly_ love looks like."

Jon's jaw tensed. "It's not what you think."

"So you're not in love with your sister?"

Jon frowned. "No… I… She's not my sister."

Tyrion frowned, surprised by this.

"Is Ned Stark not her father?"

"He was…" Jon said. "But he was never mine."

Jon swallowed hard.

"As hand of the queen, there's something I need you to know." Jon whispered.

JBJBJBJBJB

"The true born son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark." Tyrion said, trying to let the gravity of the revelation sink in.

"Yes."

"That makes you the heir to the Iron Throne." Tyrion said.

"I don't want it." Jon said. "I've never wanted it."

"But Sansa…" Tyrion started.

"Doesn't know." Jon said.

Because if she knew, she would push him to claim his birthright, likely getting herself killed in the process, Tyrion realized. But if she didn't know…

"She still believes your her half brother." Tyrion said.

Jon looked ashamed. "What choice do I have?"

Tyrion felt a twist in his heart. There was a time when he could have loved Sansa, a time when he hope she could learn to love him. But that time had passed. If she could not be his lady, he'd still have her be safe and happy. She deserved at least that much.

"And what of Daenerys." Tyrion asked. "What will you tell her?"

"I bent the knee to her. Nothing has changed." Jon said. "She is my queen."

"And you think she'll take kindly to discovering you have a new bedfellow?"

Jon's jaw tensed and he looked away, out across the snowy scape. "Love is the death of duty."

The words he'd heard his brother say over the years rang in his ears. _The things we do for love_. The rightful heir of the Iron Throne was indeed faced with an impossible choice. To take his true name and have his love or to protect her from the treacherous game.

Tyrion looked at Jon, surprised. "Did you just come up with that? It's quite good."

"It's something Maester Aemon once told me." Jon said.

Tyrion nodded, remembering the old Targaryen. "He was a wise man." He gave Jon a pointed look. "Tread carefully, Jon Snow. It seems you have a great deal to lose."

* * *

**Can I just say you guys are amazing? One chapter in and there is 8 reviews, 31 favorites, and 51 follows! I am genuinely flabbergasted by the support and love you all have shown to this story as well as Episode 1.**

**Side Note: the last update on Episode 1 was meant to be a teaser for Episode 2, like you would have gotten with the show. Did you guys like this and should I continue to do this at the end of each episode?**

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	3. Chapter 3: Arya

Arya's heart hammered louder than the anvils in the forge. She watched Gendry's arms flex and tense as he worked, remembering when she had watched him under similar conditions when he worked for the Lannisters in Harrenhall. She'd felt her first stirrings of desire in those moments. In her years since, she'd been too preoccupied to seek sexual companionship. If she was honest, she'd never really desired to after Gendry was taken from her by the Red Woman. She hadn't intended to trust or care for the blacksmith, but their parallel journeys pushed them together and as she grew to not only know him but trust him, she learned something of the truth in all those storybooks Sansa had swooned over.

Gendry looked up, smirking a little at the sight of her watching.

"Don't you have something better to do?" He teased.

"You make my weapon yet?"

"Just as soon as I'm done making a few thousand of these." Gendry said, showing her an ax forged from dragonglass.

"You should make mine first." Arya pressed, surprised by how petulant and childish her voice sounded when she was talking to him. "And make sure it's stronger than this."

"It's strong enough." Gendry said, driving it deep into a stump.

Arya followed him. She knew there were plenty of other blacksmiths she could ask to make her weapon, but she didn't care. She wanted Gendry to do it. She wanted his handiwork to carry her through the long night.

"It's going to be safer to go south with your sister, you know." Gendry glanced at her and she noted a hint of worry in his eyes. Worry for her. With the exception of her siblings, she hadn't had anyone who cared enough to worry about her in a long time. It made her self-conscious, but she found it oddly pleasant.

"Are you going South?"

"No, but…"

"But you're a fighter."

Gendry nodded. Stupid boy. He saw a small woman standing before him and still, after all this time, he underestimated her. "I've done my share."

"You've fought them?" She pressed.

"I did." He admitted. At least there was no undo pride in his voice. He knew enough to know that surviving a fight didn't make him special, just lucky. "Some of them."

"How many?"

"A few." Gendry offered vaguely. "That was enough."

_So what he saw North of the wall scared him, _Arya noted. _Good_. Bravery was all well and good, but blind bravery got you killed. She didn't want to see that happen to him.

"What are they like?" She asked.

"Bad." He said. "Really bad."

Arya scoffed at the utter lack of creativity in his description.

"Really bad? Even a smith's apprentice can do better than really bad." She pushed, needing more. She wanted to be prepared for what was coming. "What do they look like? What do they smell like? How do they move? How hard are they to kill?"

"Look, I know you want to fight." Gendry said, his tone a little harsh. "And I know you're not scared of rapers or murderers or… This is different." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "This is… This is death."

That was it. The words he was searching for. Arya knew it the second the realization reached his eyes.

"You want to know what they're like?" He asked. "Death. That's what they're like."

Arya picked up several dragonglass knives, rolling the hurriedly crafted weapons in her hands. She pulled one from the rest and studied it for a moment. Despite it's rushed creation, it was a well-made blade, balanced and true. It would do well for close quarter fighting.

"I know Death." She told him. She threw the first knife and it stuck into a post several yards away. The man leaning against the post looked around, concern evident on his face. "He's got many faces." She threw the second knife and it sunk in right beside its brother. The man leaning against the post scurried away, shooting her a look that made it clear he did not appreciate her target practice. "I look forward to seeing this one." The third knife met its mark, same as those that came before. She gave Gendry an expectant look. "My weapon?"

Gendry stared dumbfounded at the three closely clustered knifes for a moment before nodding. "I'll get right on it."

* * *

Arya stood in the doorway of Bran's chambers. His chair faced the window with his back to her. The afternoon sun spilled through the window, but the cold light offered little warmth.

Seeing him hurt her more than the other. They had all suffered a great deal in the years since they left Winterfell and they had all changed. But Bran hadn't just changed. It was like someone had cut open her brother and carved out all his smiles and humor, all his spirit, to make room for something else. He called himself the Three-eyed Raven, but that didn't seem quite right. To Arya, he seemed more like no one.

"Thank you for coming." Bran said, not having to turn around to know she was there.

His perceptiveness unnerved Arya, she was used to being the one to catch others unaware and wasn't accustomed to being expected.

"I got your message." Arya said. She wondered how he'd had the note delivered into her locked chambers, but she didn't suppose she'd get an answer, so she opted not to ask.

"I would like to speak to you about the battle to come." Bran said.

"If you're going to tell me to retreat with the rest of the women and children, you can save your breath." Arya snapped.

"I assure you, I have no such intentions." Bran said. "Everything that has happened to you, every person you have met, has guided you to this point. You are supposed to be here, Arya. And as for the battle to come, you're supposed to be there, as well. At my side."

Arya walked to his side and joined him in gazing out the window.

"But you should be away from the fighting." Arya said, not wanting to point out the obvious, that he would be near useless in the fight.

"It doesn't matter where I am, the fighting will follow." Bran said. "And I need you by my side through the long night."

"I don't understand." Arya said.

Bran reached over and patted her hand. "You will."

Arya looked at her brother, searching for some hint of the boy she used to play with, who she teased and taunted because she was better with a bow. But she found no trace of that boy in his glassy gaze.

"Now," Bran said, looking toward the door. "Would you do me the kindness of helping me to the Weirwood?"

"Why?" Arya asked.

"I have a very important meeting with an old friend."

* * *

**Happy Reading! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Warning: I cannot guarantee that I will be posting regularly for the rest of the weekend as my sister is about to have a baby and life will become suddenly crazy for a few days! I'll do my best, but if I suddenly disappear for a few days, don't be alarmed, I'll be back! In the meantime...**

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	4. Chapter 4: Jaime

Jaime approached the wheelchair bound figure of Bran Stark beneath the bloody red leaves of the Weirwood Tree. Those trees had always made him uneasy. He didn't like the sightless eyes carved into their trunks, watching and judging him. He didn't like being seen by the Old Gods. He'd never really held to any gods, old or new, but if he had to pick, he'd go with the Seven. The Seven never really troubled him as the old gods did.

"I'm sorry for what I did to you." Jamie said, though the words didn't provide the relief to his conscience that he'd hoped.

"You weren't sorry then." The boy said dully, as though none of this even mattered to him. "You were protecting your family."

He was protecting his family, yes. And all he'd managed to do was doom them and many others.

"I'm not that person anymore." Jaime said, silently praying that it was true, that all this time, some of what he'd done and suffered had in a small way evened the scales of his past sins. But there was so much sin in the pages of his book, he didn't know where to even begin to even the scales.

"You still would be, if you hadn't pushed me out of that window." Bran said. "And I would still be Brandon Stark."

Jaime frowned at that. "You're not?"

"No. I'm something else now."

"You're not angry at me." Jaime said, not needing to ask, because he could feel it. The boy didn't care enough to be angry with him.

"I'm not angry at anyone." Bran confirmed.

"Why didn't you tell them?" That moment, right after Bran had quoted his words back to him, had turned his bowels to water. In that moment, he was certain that his death sentence had been signed.

"Because they would have executed you if I had."

"Would that have been so bad?" Jamie asked.

"A single man can tip the scales." Bran said. "Don't trouble yourself so much with past sins, Ser Jaime. It will not matter much longer. You'll receive your justice before the long night ends."

"What about afterwards?" Jaime asked, his heart in his throat.

"How do you know there is an afterwards?" Bran asked in return.

He didn't... in fact, he'd rather expected that there wouldn't be an after. If, by some unlikely miracle, there was an after, he wouldn't have the first idea of what to do with himself.

* * *

Jaime spotted his brother as he reentered the yard after his troubling conversation with Bran Stark.

He had seen his brother in the Great Hall, Tyrion had even spoken on his behalf to the white-haired queen. But no words had passed directly between them, let alone the opportunity for any warm reunion.

He didn't slow his stride until they were mere feet apart.

"Well, here we are." Tyrion said by way of greeting, looking up at him with his usual bemused expression.

"Yes, here we are."

"Together again." Tyrion gave a half smile. From above, a man spit in their direction. Fortunately, his efforts where futile, but the message was still clear. Lannisters were not welcome guests in this place. Tyrion glanced up in the man's direction. "And the masses rejoice."

Used to the disdain of the masses, this reaction barely registered to Jaime.

"How do they feel about their new queen?" He asked as they fell in stride with one another.

"She's your new queen too." Tyrion said.

Jaime did not correct him, but this was far from true. He'd pledged to fight for the living, not to serve another Targaryen. He'd had enough of Targaryen rule for one lifetime.

"They remember what happened the last time Targaryens brought dragons north. They'll come around once they see Daenerys is different." Tyrion continued on.

It sounded to Jaime as though his brother was trying to convince himself as much as Jaime of the righteousness of his queen.

"And she is? Different?"

"She is."

"You're sure about her?" Jaime pressed. From what he'd seen in battle against the little queen, she had her father's same taste for fire and destruction.

"I am."

"She didn't seem sure about you." Jaime said. He couldn't help but worry for his little brother. It was clear he was on thin ice with his volatile queen.

"It's hard to blame her. I made a mistake common to clever people." Tyrion said. "I underestimated my opponents."

"Hmm."

"Cersei told me the pregnancy had changed her. A chance for you both to start again. And I believed her."

Jaime's heart ached. He had believed her too. He had believed that she'd finally had her fill of power and had learned to value something else above it. He had been wrong… again.

"Was she lying about the baby too?" Tyrion asked.

"No, that part is real." Jaime assured him, feeling a wave of guilt for abandoning the woman carrying his child, even if she'd left him no other choice. "She's always been good at using the truth to tell lies. I wouldn't be too hard on yourself. She's fooled me more than anybody."

Tyrion stopped at the base of the stairs that let up to the wall and gave Jaime a look.

"What?" Jaime asked.

"She never fooled you." Tyrion said, pity in his eyes. "You always knew exactly what she was, and you loved her anyway."

Tyrion started up the stairs, but it took Jaime a moment to recover. The shame struck him like a slap across the face at the truth in his brother's words. He was right. Jaime had always known the depths that Cersei was willing to descend to for her children and once they where gone, for her own power. She'd blown up a chunk of King's Landing simply to get rid of those who stood in her way. He tried to pretend that she wasn't just as bad as the Mad King. Tried to pretend that her actions were justified, but every time he came to grips with one of her cruelties, she committed another, even worse than the one before.

At the top of the wall, they looked out over the bustling yard. Everyone had something to do, something to contribute to prepare for the impending battle. It just made Jaime feel more useless. While he could still fight, still better than average without his sword hand, many other feats of manual labor were beyond a man with one hand.

"So we're going to die at Winterfell." Tyrion mused. "Not the death I would've chosen. I always pictured myself dying in my own bed, the age of 80, with a belly full of wine and…"

"A girl's mouth around your cock." Jaime finished with him.

Tyrion smirked. It appeared that somethings didn't change, despite the time apart, Jaime still knew his brother.

"At least Cersei won't get to murder me." Tyrion said.

Jaime heard a voice he recognized, though he couldn't make out the words and it pulled his attention away from his brother who continued to prattle on about dying with some satisfaction and marching down to King's Landing.

Jaime walked over to the other side of the wall to look down at the encampment below. Despite the distance, he picked her out almost immediately. She was tall, even surrounded by men she towered over most. Her pale blonde hair was as short as ever and worn in that same awful slicked back style that he'd always loathed. She stood annoyingly straight and surveyed the preparations and training taking place around her. By this light, she was an ugly woman. So why did his heart thrill to see her again?

* * *

**And I'm back! Yesterday went very smooth and I'm sneaking in a post while one of my nephews is sleeping and the other is at the hospital with mom and dad to see baby sister. I have a beautiful niece named Wynter. So... I supposed you could say "Wynter is here"! Thank you for the reviews, favorites, and follows! **

**Please review!**


	5. Chapter 5: Brienne

Pod blocked a strike that a year ago would have knocked him on his ass. Brienne couldn't help the swell of pride it stirred in her chest at his notable improvement. She had to imagine that motherhood felt something like this. To watch the child who came to you small and defenseless grow into a man who could not only defend himself but others as well.

She smiled softly, hoping she'd taught him enough to get him through the things to come.

Movement caught her eye and she looked to find Jaime beside her. Her breath caught at the sight of him. The last time she'd seen his hair so overgrown had been on their journey and subsequent imprisonment at Harenhall. His hair had grown darker with gray touching his beard and new lines had aged his still too handsome face, but he was the same to her. Just as beautiful as he had always been.

"Ser Jaime." She said formally.

"Lady Brienne." He said, dipping his head in a gesture that she might have thought indicated respect, had she known him less. As it were, she wondered if he was mocking her.

She tried to think of something to say, but being beside him in Winterfell of all places left her speechless.

She'd expected him to come, but not to come to her. She'd expected him to be surrounded on all sides by the full force of the Lannister army. Instead, he came alone, despite knowing how inhospitable the North and the Targaryen Queen would be to the Kingslayer. She still couldn't make sense of it. Why? Why had he come? He nearly quoted her when answering that very question in the Great Hall, but it still didn't make sense to her. He'd broken faith with his sister to keep it with who? Daenerys? No. The Stark? Certainly not. Tyrion? Perhaps. Her? ...No... that was too much to presume.

Pod bested his opponent and looked to her, almost as though for reassurance that he had done well. Silly boy. He shouldn't require her approval anymore, but part of her was glad that he did. It made her feel as though he still needed her in some small way, though he'd become a good fighter in his own right.

"He's come a long way." Jaime observed.

"He's all right." She turned to leave. "Still has a lot to learn."

"I'm sure you'll teach him." He responded, following her. "I've been told you'll be fighting in the battle."

"As opposed to what?" She asked. "Retreating with the women and children?"

"I had imagined you would remain with Lady Sansa." Jaime said. Was that a subtle implication that she was neglecting her duty to the Lady of Winterfell? No, she didn't think so. Jaime had never excelled at being subtle.

"No, I'll be fighting with one of her dolt brothers." Brienne jabbed him with his own previous derogatory remark.

"Right…"

"What are you doing?" She turned on him.

"What?" He asked dumbly.

"I think you know."

"I truly don't."

"We have never had a conversation last this long without you insulting me." She pointed out. "Not once."

"You want me to insult you?" He gave her an incredulous look.

"No!" She snapped.

"Good." He snapped back.

A long silence fell between them and he shifted uneasily.

"I came to Winterfell because…" He trailed off for a moment and then looked up, meeting her gaze. "I'm not the fighter I used to be. But I'd be honored to serve under your command, if you'll have me."

Her heart hammered in her chest as she nodded. The way he looked at her, it took her back to Riverrun when he had told her that Oathkeeper was hers to keep. When he'd said that it was hers and it always would be in a way that made her wonder… hope… that perhaps they weren't speaking of swords anymore. But that was the foolish hope of a foolish woman. She was _Brienne the Beauty_ and Jaime Lannister, often considered one of the most beautiful men in Westeros was not likely to find himself compromised by the charms of a woman like her. No, the only men she attracted were barbarians like that redheaded wildling Tormund Giantsbane.

Perhaps he respected her. Perhaps she could even go so far as to say he liked her. But he would never love her. Perhaps that was why she'd allowed herself to harbor these feelings for him. First Renly, who would never have loved any woman at all, no matter how beautiful. Now Jaime, who would never love any woman other than his own sister, especially not _Big Brienne_.

"I'd better get back." She told him, sweeping away without another word.

* * *

"Brienne of Tarth." A voice Brienne had heard a number of times but which had never been directed at her called out to her as she made her way to the forge to have them repair a damaged fastening on her armor.

The last thing she needed was to be hindered by her armor when the dead invaded.

She turned around to face the youngest of the Lannister's.

"Lord Tyrion, Hand of the queen." Brienne said with a respectful tilt of her head.

"You really do make an impressive figure, don't you?" Tyrion said, looking her up and down. "Though, most anyone seems an impressive figure to me."

He provided her a conspiratorial smirk as though the fact that he was uncommonly short was some kind of secret. She attempted to return his pleasantries with a thin smile.

"Is there something you needed, Lord Tyrion?"

"My brother," Tyrion said. "I never did thank you for saving him."

"Your brother has saved me at least as many times." She said, "There is nothing to thank."

"I'm not speaking of physical saving, though doubtless many debts have been incurred on both sides." Tyrion said.

"I don't understand, my lord."

"He came North, he left Cersei, and he pledged to fight for Daenerys Targaryen against the dead."

"He did."

"Why?"

"You'd have to ask him." Brienne replied, feeling as though Tyrion was trying to get to a point, but she didn't know what that point might be.

"I saw you speak to him in King's Landing." Tyrion said. "I believe your exact words were 'Fuck loyalty'."

Brienne's cheeks heated at the reminder. "They were… yes."

"Clearly he heard you." Tyrion said. "So, again, I thank you for doing the one thing I never could."

"What's that?"

"Save him from Cersei."

* * *

**I own nothing, but if I did, this is what season 8 would have looked like!**

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	6. Chapter 6: Daenerys

Daenerys stared into the flickering flames of the fire heating her chilly chambers. How had it come to this? Before Jon Snow, she'd had three dragons and a single purpose: to take back the Iron Throne. Then the King in the North had come along and stirred something inside her that she thought had died with Drogo.

Now she was here, a thousand miles from King's Landing and waiting to wage a war on behalf of people who neither liked or trusted her.

While Jon remained her ally, he felt less and less like her champion with each passing day.

She had believed that he loved her when he bent the knew or at least that he could grow to love her. She was beautiful, she knew that. And she was desired by many men. She had not been surprised to find that Jon also desired her. She had been surprised to discover how fleeting that desired proved to be.

Never had she felt so cast off. Never had she felt so truly alone.

The door to her chambers opened.

"Forgive me, Khaleesi." Jorah's voice came to her like a warm embrace.

She smiled softly and turned to face him.

"Have you done something to offend me?" She asked, knowing that was highly unlikely. He would fight for her, kill for her, and die for her. All she had to do was ask.

"Many things." He reminded her.

"Long ago and long forgiven." She assured him.

"But you did forgive, despite my failures." He said.

She sensed the point he was approaching and though she didn't want to be lectured on the necessity of forgiveness, she didn't have the heart to stop him. He was her oldest and dearest friend and even if she did not want his counsel, she could never deny it, knowing his words came from a place of true caring.

"When I heard you'd named Tyrion your Hand, it broke my heart." He told her.

Her chest ached at his words and she crossed the space separating them.

"When I named him Hand, I didn't know if I'd ever see you again." She said.

"You made the right choice."

She drew back ever so slightly in surprise. "I wasn't under the impression you liked him very much."

"I didn't." Jorah admitted. "His mouth hardly stopped moving between Volantis and Meereen. It was all I could do not to throw him in the sea." He paused. "But the mind behind all those words…"

Memories of Tyrion's failures rose to the front of her mind, bringing with them fresh fury. "He's made mistakes. Serious mistakes."

She brushed past Jorah.

"As have we all." Jorah reminded her. "He owns his and learns from them."

Daenerys turned back to study him, genuinely surprised by his stance. "You're advising me to forgive the man who stole your position?"

"I am." Jorah nodded. "And one other suggestion, if you'll allow me."

Daenerys gave him a look of warning, but they both know she would allow him. Because the only thing he'd every truly wanted from her was her heart. And since she couldn't give him that, she'd try to give him anything and everything else he asked of her.

* * *

"The moment we can get the last infantryman out onto the field, we should shut the gates." Sansa's advisor from the Vale told her.

"Keep them open for as long as you can." Sansa said, rejecting the sound advice. "There are still people coming in from the countryside."

_She's soft_, Daenerys realized. Perhaps too soft to make the hard calls. Despite the ice she showed the world, the Lady of Winterfell had a heart that appeared to bleed for her people. She would take unnecessary risks, simply to save a few more of them.

"Lady Sansa," Daenerys spoke up to announce her presence. "I was hoping we could speak alone."

The advisor showed himself out with a respectful nod to her as he passed.

She waited until the door closed behind her to begin.

"I thought you and I were on the verge of agreement before." She said. "About Ser Jaime."

"Brienne has been loyal to me, always." Sansa said, "I trust her more than anyone."

Another weak point. Daenerys filed the information away, should it prove necessary in the future.

"I wish I could have that kind of faith in my advisors." Daenerys said, mainly meaning Tyrion, but she'd learned long ago never to trust anyone fully. People were generally only trustworthy so long as it benefited them to be so.

"Tyrion is a good man." Sansa said, taking up the defense of her former husband. "He was never anything but decent towards me."

"I didn't ask him to be my Hand simply because he was good." She countered, walking slowly toward the prideful Stark girl. "I asked him to be my Hand because he was good, and intelligent, and ruthless when he had to be." She stopped and offered Sansa a patronizing look as though explaining complicated matters to a child. "He never should have trusted Cersei."

Sansa's expression never wavered, if she detected the slight, she didn't show it. "You never should have either." She replied with all the calm of the eye of a storm.

"I thought he knew his sister." Daenerys smile, attempting to regain some of her feigned pleasantries. She wasn't used to interacting with those who saw themselves as her equal, especially not women who saw themselves that way. It unnerved her, but she could not allow her unease to show. She would maintain the upper-hand, no matter the cost.

"Families are complicated." Sansa admitted with something of a smile.

"Ours certainly have been."

Daenerys took a seat and her opponent followed suit. And this girl was an opponent. Perhaps the greatest one she'd yet to face. Sansa was a threat to her hold of the North, and if her suspicions were correct, she was a threat to her hold on Jon as well.

"A sad thing to have in common." Sansa said.

"We have other things in common. We've both known what it means to lead people who aren't inclined to accept a woman's we've both done a damn good job of it, from what I can tell."

Sansa gave a small, appreciative smile at the complement. Daenerys took that as a small victory.

Taking a breath, she continued. "And yet, I can't help but feel we're at odds with one another. Why is that?"

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

"Your brother." Daenerys supplied. "Does it bother you that he loves me?"

"Men do stupid things for women." Sansa said keeping her tone impressively even, though Daenerys couldn't help but notice she evaded the actual question. "They're easily manipulated."

So she believed Daenerys was manipulating Jon… or she, herself, intended to. As much as Daenerys didn't like to admit it, she saw the way Jon gravitated to his beautiful half sister.

As a Targaryen, the idea of siblings desiring each other more than the masses believed they should was not such a strange idea. She had grown up believing she would have to marry her own brother, that was, until he sold her to the Dothraki for pretty promises of a war he wouldn't even live to wage. No, it wasn't the incest that disquieted her, it was the knowledge that Jon felt something for this beautiful woman across from her, and she was afraid to uncover the depths of that affection.

"All my life, I've known one goal: the Iron Throne." She told the Northern lady. "Taking it back from the people who destroyed my family, and almost destroyed yours. My war was against them. Until I met Jon. Now I'm here, half a world away, fighting Jon's war alongside him. Tell me, who manipulated whom?"

Sansa's expression softened to something almost friendly. "I should have thanked you the moment you arrived. That was a mistake."

Daenerys reached out and took Sansa's hand. Perhaps there could be peace between them. If only Sansa could recognize her superior claim to both the North and Jon.

"I'm here because I love your brother." She said. She felt Sansa flinch at those words and the ice returned to the Stark girl's eyes. _And so do you, _Daenerys realized with growing unease that Jon was not the only one who felt more than he should.

Sansa pulled away and Daenerys knew then that there could be no peace between them. They may have been allies in the war against the dead, but another war was brewing between them. A quiet and personal war. A war for the North and for it's King.

Daenerys was uncertain of the degree to which this half-sister had a hold on Jon, but she was sure of one thing. She had not come all this way to be the ruler of six of the seven kingdoms.

"I will take the Iron Throne." Daenerys said slowly. "Whatever it takes."

"And the North?" Sansa asked, though they both already knew the answer. "It was taken from us, and we took it back. And we said we'd never bow to anyone else again. What about the North?"

Daenerys was no longer sure if the girl was talking about the country around them or the man who had unintentionally pitted them against one another. Neither was she entirely sure it mattered. They were at odds with one another, and that would not change.

"Apologies, my lady. Your Grace." The Northern maester interrupted.

"What is it?" Daenerys snapped.

"Ironborn."

* * *

Daenerys swept into the the great hall, much larger now that all the tables and benches had been cleared away. She saw a scruffy band of Ironborn. They were not a large company, but she knew their kind to be fierce.

Theon Greyjoy separated himself from his companions and dropped to one knee in a appropriately respectful bow.

"My queen."

She glanced passed him in search of Yara, her preferred Greyjoy. The woman was formidable, and better than that, she very clearly preferred the company of woman, if the way she looked at Daenerys was any indication. Theon, while kind enough, had always been too quiet for her liking. She could never read him and therefore was unsure of her hold on his loyalty.

"Your sister?" She asked.

"She only has a few ships, and she couldn't sail them here." He explained. "So she's sailing to the Iron Islands instead, to take them back in your name."

"But why aren't you with her?" She asked.

Theon didn't speak right away, instead his attention shifted to Sansa. Daenerys felt a roil of jealousy which was becoming far too familiar for her liking. She looked at the redhead. She was beautiful, yes, but what exactly was the allure she held over these men? She was not a queen. She was not the Mother of Dragons. So why exactly did so many look at her as though nothing mattered quite as much as she did.

"I want to fight for Winterfell, Lady Sansa if you'll have me." Theon said his voice collected, but his eye were heavy laden with emotion.

Sansa rushed to Theon and wrapped her arms around him, her eyes brimming with tears. He hugged her back as though they were the only two in the room, no as though they were the only two in the world.

_I am not his queen_, Daenerys realized as she watched the two of him. He had bent the knee to her and she had no doubt he would serve her honorably in the war to come. But though she was the queen he would fight for... if commanded, but Sansa he would die for without thought or hesitation.

She had only ever seen one person look at her with such utter and blind devotion and that was Jorah. Others respected her, admired her, even occasionally loved her. But not like this.

How could she possibly compete with a devotion she couldn't even fully understand?

* * *

**Secrets are hard to keep when you're surrounded by a bunch of very perceptive people. I know not much changed in these sections beyond the subtext, but I always felt a battle of wits between Sansa and Daenerys would happen in between the lines. Also, I've decided to slow down the pace of chapter releases a pinch so that I can stay ahead on writing. I plan to post the next chapter Tuesday.**

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	7. Chapter 7: Jon

The blare of a horn called Jon's attention to the yard as riders thundered through the gate. When he saw Edd jumping down from a ragged horse he began running to reach him. He'd thought his friend had fallen when the Night King brought down the wall.

Before he could reach Edd, something plowed into him, wrapping him in a hug that was more than a little painful.

"My little crow." Tormund teased with genuine affection.

"I thought we'd lost you." Jon said as he returned the embrace, ignoring the searing pain it caused in his chest. He wondered if the wounds there would ever fully heal.

"Almost." Tormund admitted.

"How did you find each other?" Jon asked, looking around at the small group of friends that might as well have risen from the dead.

"We met up at the Last Hearth." Edd said.

"The dead got there first." Tormund said, his usual gayety slipping away for a moment.

Jon feared the worse. "The Umbers?"

"Fighting for the Night King now." See Beric informed him, his one eye filled with remorse.

"We had to travel around them to get here." Tormund explained. "Whoever's not here now is with them."

"How long do we have?" Jon asked, his heart speeding up.

"Before the sun goes down tomorrow." Tormund said.

_Before the sun goes tomorrow. _Too soon. The women and children hadn't even begun their journey South. He'd hoped they would have a day or two lead to put miles between themselves and Winterfell. _Sansa_… She had to be far from this place before the dying and killing started.

"The big woman still here?" Tormund asked, looking around excitedly.

* * *

The war counsel gathered as soon as word of the fast approaching enemy had spread to each of them.

"They're coming… sooner than we'd hoped." Jon said. "We have Dragonglass and Valyrian steel. But there are too many of them. Far too many. Our enemy doesn't tire. Doesn't stop. Doesn't feel. We can't beat them in a straight fight."

Sansa stood at his side, but for once her presence didn't sooth him. He wanted her gone, far away from the danger, but even with the increased pressure to finish the preparations, it would be hours before the women and children could start their retreat and senseless to send them off into the night.

"So, what can we do?" Jaime asked.

"The Night King made them all." Jon said. "They follow his command. If he falls… Getting to him may be our best chance."

"If that's true, he'll never expose himself." Jaime said, thinking like a seasoned soldier.

Jon had no love for the Lannister, but he could appreciate strategical thinking. While Daenerys was a formidable opponent, she was used to overcoming her enemies through sheer force. But this was not a battle to be won by brute force.

"Yes, he will." Bran spoke up from his chair, drawing the focus of the entire room. "He'll come for me. He's tried before, many times, with many Three-Eyed Ravens."

"Why?" Sam asked, voicing the question that was no doubt in everyone's head. "What does he want?"

"An endless night." Bran said in his chillingly flat voice. "He wants to erase this world, and I am its memory."

"That's what death is, isn't it? Forgetting. Being forgotten." Sam said, his voice was soft but it held the attention of the entire room. "If we forget where we've been and what we've done, we're not men anymore. Just animals." Sam looked to Bran. "Your memories don't come from books. Your stories aren't just stories. If I wanted to erase the world of men, I'd start with you."

"How will he find you?" Tyrion asked.

"His mark is on me." Bran said, pulling up his sleeve to display the marks of fingers burnt into his skin. "He always knows where I am."

"Can we burn it off?" Daenerys asked.

Bran shook his head. "This is merely a physical manifestation of a psychic link between us."

"Then we'll send you South." Jon suggested. "Well away from here."

"No," Bran said. "we need to lure him into the open before his army destroys us all. I'll wait for him in the Godswood."

"You want us to use you as bait?" Sansa asked, looking alarmed. "No. We're not leaving you alone out there."

"He won't be." Jaime spoke up, something that looked suspiciously like guilt, glinting in his eyes. "I'll stay with him."

Bran tilted his head, accepting the offer.

"With the Ironborn." Theon said.

"No." Bran said.

"I took this castle from you." Theon insisted. "Let me defend you now."

"Thank you, Theon. But I would have you make your amends another way." Bran said. "The women and children will go to the Iron Islands instead of the Neck. Take them West. Get them safely to your ships. Queen Daenerys will send a raven to you sister. You once brought the sea to Winterfell. Now take Winterfell to the sea."

Bran's distant gaze fell on Sansa and Theon's own gaze followed his there. Once Theon saw her and realized who exactly a retreat to White Harbor would allow him to protect, he nodded.

Jon hated the idea of Sansa on the road, relatively defenseless should any of the dead skirt around Winterfell, but as much as he did not like Theon he knew the lengths Ned Stark's former ward had gone to on behalf of Sansa. As long as he drew breath, he would not allow harm to come to Sansa.

"The Ironborn will do as you command." Theon pledged.

"The rest of us will hold them off for as long as we can." Davos said.

"When the time comes, Ser Davos and I will be on the walls, to give you the signal to light the trench." Tyrion said to Daenerys.

"Ser Davos is perfectly capable of waving a torch on his own." Daenerys said, her voice firm. "You will ride to White Harbor with the women."

"Your Grace, I have fought before, I can do it again." Tyrion protested. "Alongside the men and women risking their lives."

"There are thousands of them and only one of you. You can't fight as well as they can, but you can think better than any of them." Daenerys said, her tone offering no room for further argument. "You're here because of your mind. If we survive, I'll need it."

"The dragons should give us an edge in the field." Davos said, attempting to navigate the conversation back to the actual battle plan.

"If they're in the field, they're not protecting Bran. We need to be near him." Jon said. "Not too near, or the Night King won't come. But close enough to pursue him when he does."

"Dragonfire will stop him?" Arya asked.

"I don't know." Bran admitted. "No one's ever tried."

"We're all going to die." Tormund said somberly, then looked at Brienne lust evident in his eyes. "But at least we die together."

"Let's get some rest." Jon said to dismiss the counsel.

Everyone filed out of the room, leaving just Jon, Daenerys, Tyrion, and Bran. She watched him expectantly. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't tell her the truth, any version of it would only bring her pain. So he inclined his head to her respectfully, murmured a "Your Grace" and departed.

* * *

"Jon." Sansa called out to him as he left the war counsel.

He looked up and saw her standing in the dim sunlight filtering through colored glass that turned her auburn hair blood red. A shudder rippled through him ah he prayed that the sight was not indicative of the things to come.

She didn't approach him or say anything else. She simply turned and walked away. He followed without question as she led him down dark passages, out into the yard, and down into the crypts.

She didn't stop until she stood before the statue of Eddard Stark.

She looked up into the stony eyes, a deep sadness in her eyes.

"I've forgotten what he looks like." She admitted. "I know this is wrong… but I don't remember what is right."

Jon couldn't bring himself to meet the stone gaze. While he felt no shame in the love they'd shared the night before, he did regret the order in which he'd done things. She was a lady, not a whore to be bedded without a thought of the consequences. Ned would have had his head if he were still alive, and rightly so. Yes, he'd bedded other women. But with Ygritte it was different, it was the wildling way to take what you wanted. With Daenerys… Well, that had been more about what she had wanted than what he wanted. When he received her offer to come to her cabin, he didn't think it was the kind of offer he could afford to decline.

But even as he fucked her, he found himself looking for someone else in her beautiful face, someone more familiar.

But last night… when he woke to find Sansa in his chambers he'd been half convinced it was a dream. When she kissed him, he knew it was real. When she climbed into his bed, he finally understood what Maester Aemon had been talking about when he warned of the arms of a woman and why the men of the Night's Watch were not meant to love. No thoughts of honor or duty could and pried her from him.

Now in the light of day, he knew he'd acted shamefully, bedding her without wedding her.

"I remember him being a big man." Jon said. "I don't know if he was or if I was just smaller than."

"Well, I remember you being bigger as well." She teased.

He elbowed her playfully and she caught his arm, her hand sliding down to his and her fingers weaving with his own.

"Last night…" He started.

"I meant everything I said."

"Me too."

She nodded and squeezed his hand.

"Promise me you won't do anything stupid when the dead get here." Sansa said, looking at him. "Promise me you won't be a hero."

Jon looked down. "Someone has to be."

"Not you." Sansa said. "Not this time."

"So you'd rather I ran away?"

"I'd rather you lived." She said, moving closer to him. "I'd rather you live and love me. Heroes die. And if you died…"

He took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. "If I died, you would carry on. You'd be strong. For our family and our people."

Sansa nodded. "I would… but my heart would die with you."

His own heart ached in his chest at her words and he pulled her into a desperate kiss.

"Go…" He murmured. "Be the Lady of Winterfell the people need you to be. I'll see you later."

Sansa nodded and pulled away from him, disappearing down the tunnel.

"Your queen doesn't like our sister."

Jon jumped, looking around to find Arya observing him with her hands clasped behind her back.

"Now I see why." Arya said.

Jon didn't need to ask to know that Arya had witnessed the whole exchange. Not even the privacy of the crypts was free of prying eyes, it seemed.

"I can explain."

"You love her." Arya shrugged. "What else is there to explain?"

"Is that all you have to say?" Jon asked.

"Do I find it… unsettling?" Arya mused. "Yes. Did I always think you disliked her? Yes. Do I wish your affections were tempted in a less… complicated direction? Also yes. But I told you, I'm trying to protect our family. This changes nothing. Except that _you've_ added more danger."

"Arya…" Jon said, his insides twisting with the desperate desire to tell her the whole truth so that she knew there was no shame in the things he felt for her sister. But he couldn't. It would only further complicate things. "I'm sorry you had to find out like this."

Arya shrugged. "Is there a good way to find out your brother is fucking your sister?"

Jon's mouth went dry. "I suppose not."

"When this is over… If we all live. We'll have words." Arya warned. "In the meantime, my only concern is protecting what's left of our pack."

Jon nodded. When this was all over, he hoped there was some way he could make the truth known, some way he could erase the appearance of wrong in his actions. But for now, he would just have to live with Arya's silent condemnation.

* * *

**It's a very Stark-y chapter. Thank you for all the fantastic support! You make all the time and effort worth it!**

**I have almost finished writing Episode 2, which means it's almost time to start on Episode 3. As you can probably tell by all the shifts, episodes 3-6 will be very different from the ones written by D&D. I have most of the high level figured out and I do intent a GoT-esque ending meaning there will be many character deaths and some bittersweet endings, some of which are written in stone (I'm sorry in advance), but some fates are not yet sealed. So drop me a line! I'd love to know who you want to see more of for future POV chapters and which deaths disappointed you or felt wrong in the original.**

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	8. Chapter 8: Tyrion

Tyrion watched Daenerys as Jon left the room after the war counsel. The hurt was obvious in her eyes along with an undercurrent of simmering rage.

Love was a seductive mistress, but for the life of him, Tyrion could not think of an example where love had ended well. It certainly had not ended well for the Starks or any of the Lannisters, Targaryens, or Baratheons. It seemed to Tyrion, the quickest way to a dismal end was to fall in love. After all, wasn't it love that started this whole mess in the first place? The wrong Targaryen man loved the wrong Stark woman and the Seven Kings had been a pot ready to boil over ever since. Over 20 years later and they were still having the same argument, still fighting for the same stupid chair. Fitting, he supposed that this endless war should lead them to this, another Targaryen man in love with another Stark woman. Those damn wolves would be the death of them all.

His thoughts drifted to his own doomed love. Tysha… Had he known where that dalliance would lead, he would have turned his horse the other way from the start.

Daenerys retreated from the room. Tyrion sent a silent prayer to the Mother that his queen would not discover the cause of Jon's withdrawn affections.

Tyrion respected his queen and would serve her honorably, but he genuinely cared for Sansa. The poor girl deserved a spot of happiness after all she'd been through, even it happiness only ever seemed to be a fleeting occurrence.

Tyrion looked over at Bran, who lingered by the fire.

"Do you need help?" Tyrion offered.

"No." Bran said in that nonplused tone he seemed to have perfected.

"You've had a strange journey." Tyrion said, moving closer to the young man. He was so changed from the boy Tyrion had met his last time in Winterfell. But despite it all, he still had a soft spot for bastards, cripples, and broken things. No wonder he had an inescapable affinity for these blasted Starks

"Stranger than most." Bran conceded.

"I'd like to hear about it."

"It's a long story."

"If only we were trapped in a castle in the middle of winter, with nowhere to go." Tyrion teased lightly as he dragged a chair over to join Bran by the fire.

* * *

"Let me get this straight." Tyrion said, his mind spinning at all he'd learned. "You see everything that ever was and everything that is… And… what of the future?"

The firelight danced in the self-professed Three-eyed Raven.

"I see… possibilities." Bran said. "Though perhaps they could more accurately be called educated guesses."

Tyrion nodded. That, at least, made sense to him. If a person knew everything that had happened up to that very second, they could infer quite a lot. After all, look at what both Varys and Littlefinger had been able to speculate with only a small portion of the picture.

"In that case, what will happen in the battle to come?" Tyrion. "Your guess?"

"My guess?" Bran frowned. "Is that we should all go into the long night with as little left unfinished as possible. If there is love, is should be spoke. Grievances, forgiven. For many, there will not be another opportunity."

"Rather a bleak prospect." Tyrion said, wishing he had a cup of wine.

"Perhaps…"

Perhaps… Tyrion thought of Jon and Sansa and the private conversation he'd overheard. Perhaps it wasn't such a bleak prospect to go to your death knowing the one you loved knew precisely what they mean to you.

"If you know everything that has ever happened," Tyrion started. "Then you know that Jon…"

"Is the heir to the Iron Throne."

"And Sansa?"

Bran inclined his head to acknowledge that he was aware.

"Theirs is a song of fire and ice." Bran said. "It has been sung once before. But that melody was cut short."

"Lyanna and Rhaegar." Tyrion surmised.

"The wolf and the dragon. Winter and Summer. One cannot exist without the other, else the world be plunged into endless night." Bran said.

"I recall it didn't work out so well for your star-crossed lovers the last time."

"Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it." Bran said and looked at Tyrion. "This time we must hope for better. For the song must be sung… it was promised."

* * *

**I made one slight change to the previous chapter! Thanks to Colo Kid for pointing out to me that the Iron Islands are west of Westeros. For some reason I had that flipped. So the women and children are heading west to Theon's ships.**

**Please review!**


	9. Chapter 9: Sansa

Sansa lashed down the supplies on one of the many wagons that would begin their three week journey to Theon's waiting ships at first light. Their numbers were large and their progress would be slow and arduous.

And if Winterfell fell to the dead, it would all be for naught.

The dead did not tire or need sleep and moved faster than they'd expected based on the word they'd had from their scouts.

If the Night King and his army were not stopped at Winterfell, they would overtake the refugees within days.

But she would not think of that now. Could not afford to think of that now.

For now, she had to be strong. For her people. And for Jon.

She could not afford to show fear when so many were looking to her to be their strength.

She saw Davos serving up stew to a small girl. The child's face was half disfigured by a scar, but then again, this endless war for a stupid chair had left it's mark on all of Westeros.

"Which way should I go?" The child asked the onion knight.

Davos stared at her for a long moment, his eyes wide and glistening with emotion as though he had seen a ghost.

Sansa stepped forward and rested a hand on the child's shoulder.

"Which way do you want to go?" Sansa asked.

The little girl looked up at her and for a moment her eyes and mouth went wide, seemingly starstruck to find the Lady of Winterfell speaking to her. After a moment, she gathered herself.

"All the children will be leaving in the morning." She said. "But both me brothers were soldiers. I want to fight too."

"That's good to hear." A soft voice said at Sansa's shoulder.

Sansa looked and found the wildling woman who traveled with Jon's friend Sam. Sansa wasn't sure what their exact relationship was, but they seemed like an old married couple. It reminded her of her mother and father and the easy affection that had always existed between them. A love that was built. Perhaps not passionate and exciting, but deep and lasting. But perhaps built loves could have passion as well. She had not planned to love Jon. She'd spent most of her childhood disliking him out of loyalty to her mother's wounded pride. Then when she'd believed she'd lost all her true born brothers, her mind began to wander to him often. She'd wonder if he was well. If he was safe. And then when she was handed over to the Boltons, she wondered if he would come for her, if he knew how she was suffering. Then when Brienne returned her to him, she wondered how she ever imagined that she disliked him in the first place.

Sansa offered the wildling woman-Sansa thought she recalled her name being Gilly—an encouraging smile which she returned shyly before returning her attention to the little girl.

"I'm going to be traveling with my son, and I'd feel a lot better with you there - to protect us." Gilly said.

"I'm sure a lot of people would." Davos agreed.

"All right." The girl said. "I'll defend you, then."

She wandered off with her bowl of stew.

"Thank you," Davos said to Sansa and Gilly.

Sansa nodded.

"Keep her safe, if you can?" Davos requested, the ghost of past loss swimming to the surface of his expression again.

"I will." Sansa promised, hoping it would prove to be one she could keep.

Sansa returned to the wagons, looking over the supplies to ensure nothing had been overlooked. Water, grain, dried meats, and blankets. If they were lucky enough to escape the dead, they would still be hard pressed to survive the winter. She tried not to think of how many children would freeze in their sleep if they could not afford to stop and warm themselves through the cold nights. She felt so powerless in the face of the elements.

She noticed Gilly was still at her elbow.

"Can I help you?" Sansa asked as pleasantly as her troubled mind would allow.

"Gilly." Gilly supplied.

"Yes, I know." Sansa said, offering her a smile. "Jon speaks highly of you and of Sam."

Gilly beamed at the praise. "He's a good man."

"They both are." Sansa agreed.

"The kind of man you want to follow, not just in the bad times, but the good times too." Gilly said.

Sansa looked at her, wondering what exactly the wilding girl was getting at.

"I suppose so."

"It's going to be okay, milady." Gilly said. "I know it doesn't seem that way, but he'll get us through the long night. I know he will."

Sansa swallowed hard, suddenly aware of a large lump that had lodged in her throat.

"Thank you." Sansa whispered, not trusting her voice to hold if she spoke any louder.

"And in the meantime, we'll have each other. And we'll have hope." Gilly said. "The dead can't take that from us. Not so long as we don't let them."

Sansa reached out and squeezed Gilly's hand to convey the things she couldn't trust her voice to speak.

* * *

"Lady Sansa?" A light and vaguely familiar voice spoke up behind her as she looked out over the preparations. They were coming along as well as could be expected, though perhaps not as quickly as she hoped. It was no small task to organize the movement of hundreds of people halfway across the North, especially not when those people were largely children and elderly.

"Lord Varys." She said in greeting without looking back at the spy master.

"I received your note." He said, coming to stand beside her. "I surmised it must have been from you. Since the only other soul who knew that particular trick is no longer among the living. Courtesy of you and your sister."

She smiled slightly at the memory of Littlefinger. She didn't quite know how she felt about the man, even now months after his death at her own sentencing.

"Lord Baelish taught me a great many things."

"Yes. And you learned them better than he ever intended."

They lapsed into silence. Varys seemed in no hurry to rush her to explain her reasons for summoning him.

"Tell me, Lord Varys," Sansa gesture at the preparations taking place around them, both for the defense of Winterfell and the retreat of those unable to fight. "What do you see."

She felt the Spider's eyes on her rather than the courtyard and was reminded of Lord Baelish. He had also preferred to study her than the surrounding, weighing her actions and reactions. He'd thought he'd known her every thought. He'd thought to manipulate her and turn her against her own family. He'd paid dearly for his presumptions.

"What do you see." Varys asked, turning her question back on her.

Sansa turned and met his gaze. "I see chaos."

Varys inclined his head. "Some would call chaos a ladder."

"Perhaps, but it's the ladder that will carry the dead straight over our walls and into the heart of Winterfell." Sansa said.

She noted a spark of admiration in the spymaster's eyes. She'd had little to do with the eunuch during her time in King's Landing, but he'd always been kind enough to her, and his web have woven him around right at the edge of her little cage. Both Littlefinger and Tyrion had thought highly of him, and while that did not say much for his character, it said a great deal for his mind.

"What do you propose, my lady?" Varys asked.

Sansa licked her lips. She didn't trust this man, but then again, he was perhaps the only way she could have any influence over the success or failure of the battle to come, a chance to protect both Jon and her home.

"I propose a better plan." She said. "If you'll help me."

* * *

**Hope you're all having a wonderful weekend and that this update makes it even better! **

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	10. Chapter 10: Jaime

_I came to Winterfell because…_

Jaime looked around before sneaking down into the crypts below Winterfell. He'd never been in them before, never had reason or interest in seeing them. What did he care for old bones, especially those that would only serve to torment him?

_I came to Winterfell because…_

He crept down the stair and lifted a torch from the wall, feeling more secure with a light in his own hand than trusting the torches on the wall to stay lit. He'd had too many dreams of darkness, too many dreams where the light had failed him, to feel particularly trusting. Dreams that always seemed to bring him the maid of Tarth. The damned wench wouldn't leave him alone, even in sleep. She was tireless in her efforts to save him. And why? Why did she care? Why had she always cared. What could she possibly see that she found so redeemable, so worth fighting for, when the rest of the world saw only the Kingslayer?

_I came to Winterfell because…_

He stopped before the statue of Rickard Stark. He didn't need to see a name to recognize the prideful jaunt of his chin. That pride had never left him. Not even as the mad king burned him with wildfire.

It hadn't been the first time Jaime had seen the mad king burn a man alive, but it was the one that still haunted him. Not so much because of the burning. He'd grown accustomed to the sight and smells of a man being burned alive. No… it was because of Brandon Stark. Brandon Stark with a noose around his neck and a sword just out of his reach. A brave and stupid man who had strangled himself in the effort to save his father.

Jaime had seen in Brandon's eyes that he knew the futility of his efforts even as he struggled, but still he struggled. He'd killed himself rather than admit his inability to save someone he loved.

When the Kingsguard had finally been allowed to leave the throne room, Jaime had been sick in his chamberpot while his white cloak lay on the back of a chair, mocking him with it's purity.

_I came to Winterfell because…_

He continued down until he reached the statue of Ned Stark. Lord Eddard Stark, the righteous prick himself. The statue was a piss-poor copy of the man. Jaime couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if he'd just told Ned what had really happened in the throne room. If he had confessed that he killed the king to save the city, would it have mattered? Would it have stopped Stark from looking at him like the piece of shit he believed him to be? Would it have eased the hostility between Lannister and Stark? Might it have prevented some of the deaths that followed? Could it have saved Myrcella or Tommen? Could it have saved countless other innocent children who died needlessly?

It was too late to trouble himself over such notions, but they still troubled him. He imagined that Ned would have seen him as an oathbreaker, regardless. all the justification aside, Jaime had sworn to protect the king and instead stabbed him in the back. That was something a man like Eddard Stark would never be able to condone. What did honor mean if you only kept your word when it proved easy? But Eddard Stark hadn't been there. What did honor matter when the world was about to go up in flames?

Brienne had understood.

Brienne had heard his confession in the baths at Harrenhal and absolved him of some of his self hatred with her understanding. Ever since, she had called him Ser Jaime, while the rest of the world sneered and called him a man without honor.

_The lion does not concern himself with the opinions of the sheep. _His father's old adage came back to him. He'd used those very words to excuse any number of sins. Almost as many as he'd excused in the name of love.

_I came to Winterfell because… _

And that was it, wasn't it? The call that had driven him North when sense and house loyalty demanded he stay in King's Landing.

As Catelyn Stark had once said, he'd forsaken every vow he'd ever taken. But not this one. Because for once in his accursed life, he wanted to do something in the name of love that wasn't hateful of wrong.

He'd come to Winterfell for one reason and one reason only, forsaking yet another conflicting vow. He'd come for Brienne. To protect her if he could and to die fighting by her side if he couldn't.

Gods… she was a good woman. What a cruel trick of fate for the gods to finally teach him to love someone who wasn't Cersei, and to make her a good woman.

"The things I do for love." He whispered to Ned's statue as though confiding in an old friend. He imagined this, if nothing else, the long dead Lord Stark might understand.

* * *

Jaime made his way across the courtyard of Winterfell. He still felt useless in this bustling place. The unsullied dug trenches and set up catapults behind them out beyond the wall. Good. He was glad to see that this lot was less a bunch of fools than the Freys. From what he'd heard and seen of the dead and their numbers, this was no battle to be waged in an open field. This was a siege to be outlasted. They needed defenses to hold an unstoppable onslaught at bay, until the dragon queen and Jon Snow could melt the Night King with dragon fire… if they could take him down with dragon fire. "Maybe" wasn't his idea of a sound battle plan, but it was all they had.

"You're Jaime Lannister." Someone called out behind him.

This stopped Jaime in his tracks. Usually it was Kingslayer or Oathbreaker… not Jaime. He looked back and his heart nearly stopped in his chest. It was like looking at a ghost. Robert Baratheon raised from the dead, twenty years younger, before he drove himself to an early with endless drinking, whoring, and eating (perhaps helped along by some scheming on Cersei's part. Jaime didn't know. He'd never wanted to ask.).

"And you are?"

"Gendry Waters, ser." The young man said. His face was smudged with grim and his arms glistened with sweat despite the icy chill. The only logical explanation being that he'd come from somewhere hotter. _The armory_, Jaime concluded.

There was no doubt in his mind that the young man before him was one of Robert's many bastards. Despite Cersei's best efforts, it seemed they had not been completely wiped out.

"And what do you want from me?" Jaime asked, despite having no where to be, he didn't want to linger in this conversation. Seeing a ghost from his past had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He didn't want to be drawn back into the past, into Cersei. He just wanted to see Brienne. To tell her… To tell her what? That he loved her? No. He couldn't just spit it out like that. She'd been alarmed at him not insulting her, if he suddenly attempted to pour his heart out to her she'd think it was a cruel jest. He needed a better plan. He needed a way to show her beyond a shadow of a doubt that his regard was real and had been for a long time.

The boy scratched the back of his head uneasily, clearly sensing Jaime's dislike and eagerness to get away.

"Out with it." Jaime said impatiently.

"I heard you were the greatest swordsman in Westeros." Gendry blurted out.

Jaime lifted his golden hand. "That was a long time ago."

"But if you could wield a sword right handed…" Gendry pressed. "Do you think you'd still have it?"

Jaime frowned at the question. It seemed an impossible proposition. Not even Qyborn had been able to return what he'd lost. But, if there was a way… If he could fight right handed again… did he still have it?

"I don't have time for ifs and maybes." Jaime snapped. "I'm a middle-aged knight with one hand. I'm not going to be winning any wars."

"I think I could fashion you a device, not like that lump of gold. Something useful." Gendry said, taking a step toward Jaime. "Will you let me try?"

Jaime felt the familiar ache in his stump, a longing for the hand and fingers that it would never get used to being without.

"And what if you can't?" Jaime asked, afraid to even entertain the hope.

"What do you have to lose?"

* * *

Jaime left the armory's sweltering heat most of an hour later, leaving Widow's Wail with the blacksmith. He wondered briefly if it had all been an elaborate trick on the part of Robert's bastard's to get his hands on a valerian steel blade for the battle ahead. Somehow, Jaime doubted it. When he'd left, the boy was already furiously scribbling out design ideas.

_What do you have to lose?_

It was a fair question. But Jaime wondered if the more appropriate questions wasn't: _what do you have to gain?_ And what did he have to gain? A usable sword hand? Even if Gendry managed to do the impossible, Jaime highly doubted that his right arm would have the strength to wield a sword, let alone wield it well.

Sure, he was always lugging around the solid gold hand which was heavier than most people would expect, but once he trained for hours a day to keep up his skills. Those skill no doubt had atrophied just as he was sure the muscles had. It would be a lesson in futility. Yet another reminder of what he'd lost and what he could never be again.

His best was long behind him. And he was done with looking back.

"Ser Jaime." A familiar voice called out to him. He spotted Brienne striding toward him, one hand resting on the hilt of Oathkeeper. The lion suited her. Nearly as awe-inspiring and courageous as she was.

"Lady Brienne." He gave her a slight bow of his head.

She made a face as though trying to decide to take this a respect or mockery. The silly wench. So used to being mocked she didn't even know how to recognize sincerity.

"In the war counsel…" She started. "You volunteered to defend Bran Stark in the Godswood."

"I did."

She frowned. "That… was noble of you."

"But?" He pressed.

"You will not be under my command." She said.

"You won't be at the godswood?"

"I will not."

Jaime felt a sinking sensation in his chest. He hadn't even considered that when he'd made the offer. Part of him had simply assumed that wherever he fought, Brienne would also be.

And what if… what if in the midst of the battle, she needed him. What if she died because he wasn't there to save her?

"I had intended to fight beside you." He told her.

She nodded, and he could see in her eyes that she had intended the same. Were the very same thoughts in her head now? He saw fear. Not of dying, but perhaps of failing. Of failing once again as she had with Renly.

_We don't get to choose who we love._

Jaime felt sure than that she loved him too. But he was just as certain that she wouldn't believe his words is he assured her of his regard. No… Words had never been their strong suit.

"Stay alive, Brienne of Tarth." Jaime said, placing his hand over hers on the hilt of Oathkeeper.

Her stunningly blue eyes held his for a long moment before she nodded. He nodded back and reluctantly withdrew his hand.

Robert's bastard had better be on to something, because he had no intention of letting the Maid of Tarth fall during the Long Night. Even if he had to take on the entirety of the army of the dead, literally, single-handed.

* * *

**Just a reminder, I own nothing! If I did, I'd drive a nicer car!**

**Also, just a quick aside, I had a reader who was discontent with the length of the previous chapter and the shift of focus from the "main" characters. I just want to set the expectation that chapter lengths will vary. If I have a scene needed and that's all I have to write from a certain character's POV at that point in the story, it will be a short chapter. Sorry in advance if you find those shorter updates disappointing!**

**As for shifting focus from the "main" characters, I'm trying to write a multi POV narrative in the vein of both G.R.R. Martian's books and the series. This means that I have subplots for these non-"main" characters that I feel are important to the story as a whole. I'm sorry if that's not the story you want to read, but the story I want to tell is bigger than any one "main" character.**

**Thank you for all the support for this story! I'm writing it because I'm desperate for a different ending, but I'm posting because you are all so wonderful! I love that you're all so engaged! I wish I could devote myself to writing this story full time so that I could give you daily updates, but alas... life. Fortunately, I am about done with my class, so that will be one less item on my plate! **

**Hmmm... apparently I'm in a chatty mood. I'll stop there and save the rest of my words for the story! ;)**

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	11. Chapter 11: Daenerys

Daenerys watched the "King of the North" at a distance as the handsome man stood before her dragons. His long black coat flapped heavily in the cold wind, but the chill did not seem to him as it did her.

Daenerys did not like to think of herself as fragile. She was the breaker of chains. She was the unburnt. Fire did not touch her. But this cold burn worse than any flames she'd ever touched.

Despite the fact that Drogon and Rhaegal were free to fly in search of food and the Dothraki regularly brought them additional sustenance when they did not seem to be eating enough, Jon had brought each dragon a goat. A kindness. Unnecessary, but still kind.

Soft. Just like Sansa.

Daenerys could be soft as well, but only when it suited her purposes to be so. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been kind for kindness sake. Kindness had become a transaction. A behavior, like any other, resorted to because it would further her agenda.

But Jon… Jon was kind without agenda.

It was why she loved him.

It was why she hated him.

Because he was kind to her and his kindness had persuaded her to believe he cared for her. His kindness had made a fool of her and she did not appreciate being made a fool.

Drogon picked at one of the carcasses and seemed content to ignore Jon's presence.

Rhaegal, on the other hand, had eaten his entire goat and was allowing Jon to stroke his eyebrow. He made a low, pleased rumbling in his chest. Though even a sound of contentment from a Dragon was fearsome. But Jon showed no fear. Heroes never showed fear. If they felt it, they shoved it down somewhere dark and forgotten. They pushed it so far down it failed to save them when the hour of need arose, because the did not know fear to be an ally. That blind courage had killed Rhaegar and Drogo. Her own blind courage had cost the life of both her born dead human child and Viserion.

No, it was not heroics that won wars or thrones. It was cleverness. She needed the clever ones to survive the long night if she wanted any hope of taking King's Landing from Cersei after. She had to become one of the clever ones if she wanted any hope at claiming her birthright.

No, the gods could have the softness. Softness was of no used to her. The softness that had reared its head within her when Jon Snow came into her life had only caused her disappointment. She was fire and blood. The long night could burn out the softness and the man who'd made her soft with it.

"He likes you." Daenerys observed, announcing her presence.

Jon turned to her and Rhaegal nudge him in protest of the discontinued scratching. She'd never witnessed any of her children indicate a particular preference for any human but herself. Even then, only Drogon showed a marked affection for her. Rhaegal and Viserion had always been more distant. But perhaps Rhaegal sensed her own particular preference for this human.

"I like him too." Jon said with a half smile. "You named him for your brother?"

"Rhaegar," Daenerys confirmed. "Everyone told me he was decent and kind.

He liked to sing. Gave money to poor children. But what he did to your aunt… Try as I might, I can't reconcile those two sides of him."

Jon didn't look at her, but she could see his shoulder tighten as though she'd struck a nerve, though which nerve she couldn't tell. She hadn't intended the remark to be barbed.

Jon sighed and looked back to the dragon. "Maybe we don't have to reconcile the two sides of him. Maybe we just have to accept that sometime people are complicated. Sometimes they are kind and cruel. Sometimes they are fragile and strong."

"Sometimes honorable and dishonorable?" Daenerys suggested, this time intending the barb.

Jon looked back at her and she could see in his eyes that if she asked him for the truth he'd give it to her. It wasn't in him to lie. Her chest tightened. She knew the truth in her heart, but having it confirmed… She wasn't sure she could stand that.

But she had to know.

"You pledged yourself to me, Jon." She reminded him, drawing closer to him.

"I did."

"Do you stand by that pledge?" She could tell from his expression that he knew she meant more than as his queen. She could feel the emotion shining in her eyes, but she couldn't help it. Daenerys drew closer to him and placed her hands on his chest.

"You are my queen. You will always be my queen." He vowed. "You have my sword and my life."

"And your heart?" She asked, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down into a desperate, passionate kiss. One last breath of softness. "Do I have your heart?"

He pushed her away, gently, but he might as well have run her heart through with a dagger. A pained expression darkened his expression. "Is not mine to give."

Daenerys drew back, anger coursing through her.

"Who?" She demanded, though she was sure she already knew the answer.

"Doesn't matter." Jon said.

"I am your queen and I order you to tell me." Her voice broke and her volume escalated. She could sense Drogon reacting to her rising ire.

"Ask anything else of me." Jon said, not flinching even as Drogon breathed down his neck.

"And if I asked you to kill your sister?" Daenerys asked. "Sansa… Lady Winterfell. She opposes me with her every word and action. Even her smiles are treasonous. I would be justified in demanding her head."

Momentary panic in Jon's eyes confirmed what she already knew in her bones.

"And it's all because she loves you." Daenerys said as though the words were an insult.

"Sansa is no threat to you." Jon said, his words were calm but for the first time he saw genuine fear in his eyes. Perhaps not such a hero after all. Perhaps it was just a matter of finding a fear to dear to be kept down.

"She's already taken you." Daenerys hissed. "What next? Perhaps she'll have your other sister slit my throat in my sleep."

"My sisters have no part in this." Jon said, his voice pleading.

"You gave them a part in this." Daenerys hissed. "All because you love Sansa Stark. Admit it."

She heard Drogon rumble in echo of her anger. She could feel the heat of his flames, just a word away. He would burn Jon to ash. All it would take was a word. What did she care if it would turn the North against her. She could burn the North to the ground.

"I won't lie to you, my queen." Jon said, confirming the very thing that could hurt her most.

_Dracarys. _The command danced on the tip of her tongue. One word and she could burn away the softness aching in her chest. She could make her insides as hard and black as dragon glass. All it would take was a single word.

_I did not come here to be queen of the ashes. _No… but she had come to be loved. To be welcomed home by the people who should have longed for her return. She had not come to be looked down on by that wolf bitch and rejected by her bastard brother.

Jon watched Drogon, clearly uneasy, but to his credit he did not cower before the great beast.

"You've missused me, Jon Snow."

* * *

"Your Grace?"

Daenerys turned to find Tyrion climbing up the hill to join her and her children. He looked nervous, which gave her some indication of the level of rage burning in her eyes.

She'd ordered Jon away before her temper had caused her to do something rash. The bastard had enough survival instinct to heed her command without protest. The hotheaded side of her had considered taking her dragons and armies and leaving Winterfell to fall to the dead. But despite her protestation that she was here for Jon, she recognized the need to face the dead now. The longer she waited, the stronger they became. Besides, she would not let Viserion's death be for nothing.

"Please," Tyrion said in his soothing voice that she had like from the start. "Tell me what troubles you. Allow me to advise you."

"It's Jon Snow."

"He's told you?" Tyrion said, looking alarmed.

"He's in love with his sister."

"Ah…" Tyrion nodded.

She saw a hint of relief in the dwarf's face. "What did you think I meant?"

"That… I just… I didn't expect that he'd tell you."

"How did you know?" Daenerys demanded, feeling a sting of betrayal.

"I had my suspicions." Tyrion shrugged.

"And you didn't tell me?"

"Would you have wanted to hear such a thing from the man who was deceived by Cersei Lannister?" Tyrion pointed out. "No… I thought it was best to keep such suspicions to myself. After all, I can't advise you if you let your dragons eat me."

Despite her mood, Daenerys couldn't help the little laugh that escaped.

"I won't let them eat you." She assure him. "Though, I should let them eat that Stark girl."

"You should not." Tyrion said.

"She has been nothing but rebellious toward me since I arrived." She pointed out.

Tyrion inclined his head. "True enough, but you would not be executing her for the sake of justice. You'd be doing it out of jealousy."

Daenerys sank down on a large rock and Tyrion placed a hand on her shoulder.

"May I speak frankly, your Grace?"

Daenerys considered his question for a moment. She knew her temper could be volatile so she had to admire the dwarf's courage to face her so unflinchingly. Eventually she nodded to encourage him to proceed.

"My brother said something during his trial… Something I urge you to keep in mind in the days and years to come, assuming we survive the dead."

"And what was that?" Daenerys asked.

"He asked 'when does a ruler forfeit their right to their throne?'" Tyrion reminded. "When would you say that is?"

Daenerys tried to push down her heartbreak at Jon's desertion and inherent hatred of Jaime Lannister to really consider the question.

"I don't know." She admitted. "But I suppose you have some thoughts on the matter?"

Tyrion chuckled. "Some." He admitted. "I believe a ruler sacrifices their right to rule when they believe it is owed to them. We can justify all kinds of sins under the pretense of birthright and destiny."

"So you think I'm unworthy to rule?" Daenerys asked.

"I think…" Tyrion mused, considering his answer for a long moment. "That you should feel unworthy to rule."

Daenerys nodded, considering his words. "You've given me a great deal to think about, Lord Tyrion." She placed her hand over his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I thank you for your counsel."

* * *

**So I'm busily at work on finishing Episode 2 and I'm just trying to find the right spot to break into Episode 3. At the moment, I think were looking at somewhere in the range of 30 chapters. Probably a little more than would fit into a standard GoT episode, but I hope you all won't mind! ;)**

**I'll admit, I'm a bit nervous to break into Episode 3 as action is significantly harder to write, in my opinion. I have, however, put significant thought into the events for the Long Night. Now I just have to figure out how to execute it... Hey, maybe I'll take a leaf out of the show's book and just make everything really dark so you can't really tell what's happening... Seems like a solid plan!**

**Regardless, that's my rather sizable bridge to struggle across when we come to it. In the meantime, enjoy all the messy interpersonal drama (my favorite parts).**

**Please Review!**


	12. Chapter 12: Sansa

The last of the wagons were packed and ready as the sun went down. Though the air was restless with unease, Sansa knew there was no sense in leaving before daybreak. What they would gain in distance they would lose to the inhospitable elements. No, it was better to rest for the night and leave in the morning well fed and warm. They would likely make better time in the long run. Besides, the handful of miles they would gain would mean nothing if the dead made it past Winterfell. Many of their company were either too old or too young to swiftly cover ground and their pursuers would not be so limited. The dead would come and they would keep coming until they were stopped. They did not need rest or nourishment. For all of their sakes, it was victory or it was death.

She said a silent prayer that it would be victory, and that the victory wouldn't cost more than she could stand to pay.

She remembered Jeoffery forcing her to look upon her father's decapitated head. She remembered receiving word that Bran and Rickon had been burned at Winterfell, it proved false, but she still felt the ache of believing it to be true. She remembered when news of the red wedding had reached King's Landing. How many sleepless nights had the image of Grey Wind's head sewn to her brother's body tormented her? How many nights had she woken screaming after dreaming of her mother's wreck of a corpse, throat split wide in a smile and sightless eyes staring up at the sky as she floated down the Twins. She remembered learning that Rickon was alive, only to be confronted by the reality that he would not be for long. She remembered the way Ramsay's arrow had ripped through the tiny body like it was nothing. That sweet summer child… Rickon… She remembered his curls and how she'd loved to play with them when he was little and would let her hold him.

Yes this game of thrones had already enacted a steep cost on her and her family. But this impending battle against the dead was different. It was impersonal and hostile. The dead did not care that she'd lost too much already. It did not matter to the Night King that there were only four people left in all the world that she loved. One was no one. One little more than a shell already. One a brother in all but name. And one… one too dear for words.

She could not lose them. But it was out of her power. For all her plots and plans and schemes, there was nothing she could do to shelter them from the oncoming storm.

She was about to retreat into the castle and go to Jon's chambers, as she had promised, when she saw Theon, sitting alone as he ate his supper. She saw the other Ironborn scattered around and she wondered whether or not his exile was self-imposed.

She, better than anyone, knew what he'd endured. And if he couldn't shirk off the weight of his past sins and torment to live in the present, she could understand. Sometimes she couldn't either. Sometimes she watched people laugh and smile and she felt a sting of resentment because they felt so very far away from her. The only times when laughter and smiles did not seem foreign and beyond her were the times when she was with Jon. Funny that the boy who'd so often sulked in the corners of their childhood would now be the one flickering flame of hope in her otherwise dark and daunting world.

She grabbed a bowl from the line and offered encouraging smiles to those who recognized her, hoping the memory of the Lady of Winterfell taking this last supper with them might buoy them up in the day's to come.

With her steaming bowl, she walked over to the bench where Theon sat.

"May I?"

"Lady Sansa." Theon said in surprise, starting to get up.

"Please don't," Sansa said. "There's no need for such formalities. Not between us."

Theon nodded and sank back down to his seat as she took the spot beside him.

"I know traveling South with the woman and children was perhaps not the glorious role you envisioned playing in this battle." She said before sipping a spoonful of her stew.

"There's no glory in battle." Theon said.

"There is no glory in battle." Sansa agreed. "Only in fighting to save those things we hold most dear."

She looked at him and a look of profound understanding passed between them.

Theon didn't have to tell her that he'd come North for her, she knew it. And while she didn't have words for what he meant to her, she hoped that he knew it. After what they had both suffered at the hands of Ramsay, she thought they would always understand one another better than anyone else could.

"You've always fought for me when I needed you most." Sansa said. "There's no one I'd rather stand beside through the long night."

"Queen Daenerys asked me why I wasn't with my sister." Theon said. "But I am."

Sansa looked into his eyes, trying to hold back the emotion threatening to escape. She pulled him in for a hug, hoping to convey the depths of everything she felt for him. More than a friend. More than a brother. Two sides of the same weatherbeaten coin.

"Thank you for coming home." She whispered in his ear and she felt his arms tighten around her.

* * *

Sansa made her way through the yard of Winterfell. An uneasy silence had descended on the castle. She stopped at the mouth of the crypts and placed a hand on one of the wolf statues which had been decapitated by the Boltons. The wretched, petty bastards. As though they hadn't done enough to the the Stark family.

She thanked whatever gods might be listening most every night that Ramsay hadn't gotten her pregnant. She would have drank her weight in moon tea to rip any trace of him from her body, if he had. She would have ended her own life rather than be the means for the Bolton name to endure.

When she was young, all she'd wanted was for life to be a song about fair knights and beautiful maidens, all coming to happy endings. She understood now that life was never that simple. She learned that to stop being a damsel, you had to learn to save yourself.

"You've changed, Little Bird."

The gravelly voice called to mind the scent of blood and smoke. The sounds of a long ended war hammered in her head as she turned to face the hulking figure of the Hound. He did not strike quite so terrifying of a figure as he had that night in King's Landing when she'd found him in her bedroom during the Battle of Blackwater. He'd been the stuff of nightmares then, but that was before she truly knew what nightmares looked like.

"Used to be you couldn't look at me." He said taking a long swig from his flask.

"The world is built by killers. I got used to looking at them." She said remembering one of the many lessons he imparted on her. Gruff and crass he might be, but he'd imparted many pearls on her when he was Jeoffery's dog and she his caged little bird. She hadn't recognized the wisdom of his words at the time, but she did now.

Sandor chuckled, amused by the adaptations of his words. "Heard you did more than look. Heard you became one of the killers."

Sansa stiffened at the reminder of the blood on her hands. She felt no guilt over what she'd done and in some ways that was more alarming to her than what she'd done.

"He got what he deserved." Sansa said. Jon had handed Ramsay over to her to give him what justice she saw fit. She knew he'd wanted to kill the bastard, but she needed to kill him. She needed to know that he'd never hurt anyone again because she ended him. "I made sure of that."

Sandor looked her over, something of admiration flickering in his eyes. "How'd you do it?"

"Hounds always were my best protectors."

Sandor guffawed loudly. "The little bird grew claws."

Sansa let out a soft laugh at the description. If only he knew how true his words had become.

"It took a great deal of time, but I learned all my lessons." Sansa said.

Sandor nodded in approval and offered her the flask. She took it and took a long swig, it was strong, but she'd learned to take her liquor like any other punishment. With a straight face.

"I used to I wonder what might have been if I'd taken you up on your offer. If I'd let you take me home all those years ago." Sansa admitted. She'd tossed and turned over that decision many times over the years.

"And?"

"I realized if I'd let you save me, I would have stayed a stupid Little Bird all my life. And I wouldn't give up where I am now for anything… Not even to erase the terrible things it took to get me here."

Sandor reached out for his flask and she returned it to him.

"You know, I do believe you'll be alright now, Little Bird." The Hound grunted with a proud glimmer in his eyes.

* * *

**TGI Friday! I'm feeling particularly keen on the fact that it's the start of the weekend, so I thought I'd kick it off with an update!**

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	13. Chapter 13: Missandei

Missandei wandered through the courtyard of Winterfell. Despite torches flickering all around, she was colder than she could ever remember being. There were two things she was certain of since coming North, first that she would follow her queen to the ends of the earth… and second that she would prefer those ends to be some place warmer.

She noticed two girls sitting on crates and eating their supper.

"Hello." She said with a pleasant smile.

The two girls got to their feet and hurried away as though she'd threatened them. Yet another reason why she did not like this place. It was cold. Both the temperature and the people.

She looked up to find Grey Worm approaching her and her heart sped up in happy anticipation as it always did when she saw him. Unlike the nauseating discomfort that came every time she had to watch him walk away to face a danger from which she wasn't sure he'd return.

"When Daenerys takes her throne there will be no place for us here." He said in his usual measured tone which reflected none of the emotions she knew brewed beneath the surface. Those he reserved for her on the rare occasions when they could be alone and undisturbed. "I am loyal to my queen. I will fight for her until her enemies are defeated, but when the war is over and she has won… Do you want to grow old in this place?"

There were many things Missandei wanted. Most of which seemed perpetually out of her grasp. She would like a normal life with the man she love, away from intolerance and violence, but they had both been too marred by former atrocities to ever obtain that normal life.

"Is there nothing else you want to do, nothing else you want to see?" He pressed.

"Naath." She admitted, her thoughts straying back to an almost forgotten time before enslavement had fundamentally changed her. "I'd like to see the beaches again."

Perhaps, if any place would allow her to be the girl she'd once been, before all this, it would be her idyllic homeland.

A half smile curved one side of Grey Worm's mouth. "Then I will take you there." He promised.

Missandei's heart hammered at his words because they'd given her something she hadn't had or aspired to in longer than she could remember… Hope.

"My people are peaceful." She said. "We cannot protect ourselves."

"My people are not peaceful." Grey Worm said. "We will protect you."

Missandei smiled softly. She'd never dared to imagine an after… after the war… after the wheel had been broken… But now, in the most hopeless of places, she'd found the will to hope for not only Daenerys's better world, but for a better future for herself as well.

* * *

Missandei made her way to her bed chambers after her conversation with Grey Worm. Even with the weight of all the death and destruction to come, her steps felt a little lighter at the prospect of something after all of this, something good.

She stopped short as she spotted a tall figure with auburn hair approaching the chambers of her queen's beloved Jon Snow. She drew back into the shadows to avoid being seen as Lady Sansa looked around to make sure she wasn't observed and slipped discretely through the door.

Missandei's heart hammered in her chest. She'd seen private counsels and she'd seen secret rendezvous and she had no doubt that this encounter was one of the later. Why else would a sister care if she was seen entering her brother's chambers, unless it was for some shameful purpose.

And even if it was innocent of the desire she imagined she saw in the eyes of the Lady of Winterfell, there was still something suspicious afoot, something her queen needed to be aware of. While Jon had bent the knee, his sister had not and had refused to and that meant she was not to be trusted.

She had to warn Daenerys, if this was a threat to her queen's safety or happiness, she had to be aware.

Missandei turned to change her direction to that of her queen's chambers instead of her own, but froze when she felt something cold and sharp press into her side.

"I wouldn't, if I were you." A low voice warned.

She looked around and met the dark gaze of the other Stark sister at the other end of a thin, elegant blade.

"Lady Arya." Missandei said in uneasy greeting.

"I'm no lady."

"What are you doing?" Missandei asked, holding up both her hands to indicate she would offer no opposition and there was no need to press the blade any harder.

"Defending my family." Arya told her.

* * *

**Short chapter, I know. I hope you enjoy it regardless. **

**Please review.**


	14. Chapter 14: Tyrion

Tyrion stepped into the eunuch's chambers, expecting to find half-packed chests strew about the space in utter chaos. But no… everything was in order, even his bed was neatly made, almost as the the spymaster had no intention of sleeping in it.

A quick sweep of the room revealed Vary standing by the fire, staring into the flames, his expression hard and almost angry. An unusual expression for a man so often impassive and unreadable.

"Are you bags already on the wagons?" Tyrion asked as he strode over and stood beside his old friend. The heat of the fire was as welcome as a woman's embrace, to that he'd been embraces in a long time.

"I'm not leaving with the women and children." Varys said.

Tyrion looked to his friend, one of the few people he could say he both genuinely liked and respected. "No?"

"I've been charged with a different duty."

"What does our queen have you doing now?" Tyrion asked, half annoyed that Daenerys hadn't ran her scheme by him first. What precisely was the point of a Hand if you didn't utilize their council.

"Not our queen." Varys said.

Tyrion frowned and looked up at the eunuch. His chest felt tight with unease. "Then who?"

"Someone wiser."

Tyrion considered this for a long moment, and then it clicked. Sansa. What was the damnably clever girl up to now? And why on earth was Varys going along with it? Their queen was not one to be trifled with and would not take kindly to anything she viewed as a betrayal. Varys knew better than most the danger of crossing an unstable monarch. Tyrion did not consider Daenerys unstable, but she was hot tempered and likely to act before thinking through all the ramifications and that was nearly as hazardous to anyone who might displease her.

"Why?" Tyrion asked.

"Because I underestimated her." Varys said, thoughtfully. "I always saw her as more of a pawn. An unimportant piece moved by the whims of others. It takes a rare individual to not only survive, but thrive when the odds are stacked against them."

"She's surprised all of us." Tyrion admitted.

"Even you?" Varys raised an eyebrow, looking mildly amused.

"I think, perhaps, especially me."

"Hmmm…" Varys grunted.

Tyrion looked at the bald man, he looked worn thin, as though whatever Sansa had asked of him had aged him a couple of decades.

"What did she asked you to do?" Tyrion asked, his insides twisting with growing unease.

"To stay in Winterfell." Varys said. "To manage the communications during the battle. To offer the birds eye view that is often lost by those in the thick of war. She believes I might be able to assist in keeping back the chaos."

"And you said yes?" Tyrion looked his friend up and down. The man was no fighter, hells, the only weapon Tyrion could imagine him wielding was poison. He was not a battle hardened figure. The honorary lord was not destined to become the stuff of heroic songs and legends.

"I said yes." Varys confirmed.

"What possible reason did you have for doing that?" Tyrion demanded. "She is in no position to command you."

"She didn't command me. She simply asked." Varys said and then an amused expression crossed his face. "You know, I do believe she's wielded more authority with a simple, unassuming request than I have ever witnessed in the roaring demands of any of the many rulers I've served."

Tyrion gave Varys a startled look. "Careful, your words sound dangerously close to treason."

Varys gave him a thin smile. "Hardly, simply an observation. After all, since when do pawns become queens?"

Tyrion squirmed at the question, because he knew the answer and it chilled him to the bone. A pawn could become a queen when that pawn held the heart of the true King. And whether Jon Snow wanted to admit it or not, he was the true king. And he would be a good king for that precise reason. He did not want it.

"So what plan does Lady Sansa have for you?" Tyrion asked.

"A good one." Varys said. "She's quite a clever girl. I see now why both you and Littlefinger found her so intriguing."

Tyrion waved him off, wanting him to get to the point.

"The Lady Sansa observed that we needed a way to communicate battle plans and changes thereof in the heat of battle. Especially with our queen and Jon Snow off on the backs of dragons instead of leading."

Tyrion nodded, remembering the chaos during the battle of the blackwater. "And I suppose that's where you come in?"

"That's where I come in." Varys smirked slightly. "I've spent my life developing ways to communicate information in impossible situations. It's almost as though I was born for this very purpose."

Tyrion studied his friend. "You're sounding a bit too much like one of those red priestesses for my liking."

Varys sighed. "I never did care for their ilk."

Tyrion nodded his agreement.

"You know, you don't have to do it?" Tyrion pointed out. "Lady Sansa might be clever, but she'd not the one you swore to serve."

Varys gave Tyrion a sad smile. "Perhaps not, but I think she may be the queen I would have chosen."

Tyrion's eyes widened. "Now that was treasonous."

"Do you intend to tell on me." Varys asked, not seeming overly concerned. "Don't trouble yourself too much, old friend. The dead are coming. More than likely my words won't matter in two days time, treasonous or otherwise."

Tyrion sighed and went to Varys's table to fetch himself a cup of wine.

"When did you get so heroic?" Tyrion asked, his words sounding snide to his own ears. If he was honest, he felt a bit of resentment. Even Varys would be in the midst of the battle while he fled with his tail between his legs because his queen demanded it.

"Oh, trust me, heroism is the furthest thing from my mind. I'm pragmatist. It does none of us any good if this castle falls. Helping in some small way to stop the dead… well, that's the greatest protection I could hope to offer the realm with my one, insignificant little life."

Tyrion took a long drink of wine before meeting his friend's gaze.

"You know, for a man with no balls…" Tyrion started, he saw Varys prepare to roll his eyes and he stopped himself. This might well be the last conversation they ever shared, and the thought made his throat go tight. "No… Joking aside."

Varys looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Rightfully so, with Tyrion, joking was never truly aside.

"You have more courage than any man I've ever known." Tyrion told him.

Varys looked stunned by this. He opened his mouth, but closed it and tried again after a moment to compose himself. "No eunuch jokes?"

"Not this time." Tyrion said with a small smile.

Varys returned the smile and gave a small nod that said everything that would take too long to express in words.

* * *

**6 reviews in just a couple of hours? You guys are fantastic! And because you are fantastic, I thought I'd surprise you with an extra update! Do not fear! You'll still get the standard Thursday update. This is just a present from me to you, you beautiful humans (no offense intended to any wolves, lions, or dragons who may be reading, you're fantastic as well)! Another short one, I'm afraid, but we have some longer ones on the horizon. **

**Please review!**


	15. Chapter 15: Daenerys

Daenerys sat by her fire, but not even it's heat could shake the hollow feeling Tyrion's words had imparted upon her. She wondered, vaguely, if that had been his intention, to distract her from her rage long enough to keep the peace between Targaryen and Stark until the dead arrived.

All bets would be off once the dead arrived. In that moment, survival would be the only thing that mattered. If they survived… When they survived, there was no telling who of the living would remain. There was no point in indulging in petty jealousy when it would only distract from the true enemy. She had to keep focused on the true enemy. Broken hearts and wounded pride were matters best left to be dealt with in the uncertain future.

A knock came from her door.

"Come in." She called, picking up her wine and taking a sip.

"Khaleesi." Jorah said in that familiar rasp that felt more like home than anything else she could imagine.

"Thank you for joining me." She said without looking at him. "I wasn't sure you'd get the message."

"The Dothraki are quite good at passing on messages." Jorah said, the hint of a smile in his words. He was right there, news spread through the Dothraki with impressive speed. She'd call them gossips, but she didn't think they'd take kindly to that description.

"Please, take a seat."

Obediently, Jorah took the other seat beside her fire as she poured him a goblet of the fine Dornish wine.

"I hope I have not called you away from anything important." She said.

He picked up the goblet and took a long draw.

He'd changed over the years, His hair was duller and thinner and the lines of his face deeper. But oddly, he felt no older to her. When they'd met, she'd been barely more than a child and he'd seemed an old man to her. Now, the years between them no longer felt so great.

"There's nothing more important." He assured her.

"Do you truly still believe that?" She asked.

Jorah looked at her as though perplexed by the question.

"Once you told me that sometimes you couldn't believe I was real."

"I did." Jorah said. "I still can't sometimes."

"If only the rest of Westeros shared your opinion." She sighed, wishing Tyrion's words hadn't settled so heavily on her shoulders.

"Most of Westeros doesn't care who sits on the throne, Khaleesi." He reminded her. "They simply want someone just. As for the Lords and Ladies… Well, once they see you as I do, they'll come around."

"No one sees me as you do, Ser Jorah." She reached out and took his hand.

He raised her hand to his lips and brushed the whisper of a kiss against the back of her hand.

A shiver ran through her at his touch. She did not desire him, but it felt good to be desired.

"Then that is their loss, Khaleesi." He said. "And I swear to you, so long as there is breath in my lungs I will fight for you."

Daenerys smile softly at him, recalling all that had passed between them. Betrayals and bad blood. Incurable disease and impossible commands. And through it all, he'd been by her side or fought his way back.

"If this is the end of all things, old friend," She said softly, her eyes stinging with emotion. "There is no one I'd rather have by my side."

He smiled softly at her words and filled her cup with wine.

"Let's not dwell on an uncertain future tonight." Jorah suggested, handing her the cup.

She took the wine and enjoyed a slow sip. "What do you suggest instead?"

"I suggest that we remember." Jorah said. "The good times and the bad. The triumphs and failures. All it took to get us here and the price we paid."

Daenerys's chest tightened at the memory of her husband and born dead child and her fallen dragon.

She shook her head. "I can't look back." She looked at her beloved knight. "If I look back I am lost."

Jorah took her hand. "Khaleesi… it is the past that grounds us and reminds us who we are and who we must choose to be. Yes, looking back may be painful, but if we don't look back, then we truly are lost."

She met his steady gaze and nodded slowly. She wasn't sure she agreed but his words made her feel safe and protected, as though she had everything she needed to succeed, if only he stood by her side.

_I love him_, she realized. Perhaps not passionately as she had loved Drogo and wished to love Jon. Certainly she did not lust for him as she had Dario. But she loved him, and she thought, perhaps, she loved him better than any of the others. If only… If only she could want him, then perhaps her road would have been a happier one. Perhaps then she wouldn't have had to conquer the world to find a home because home would have been beside her all along.

"Khaleesi?" Jorah prompted.

She looked at him and realized he must have asked her a question.

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head to assure her that no offense was taken. "I merely asked if there was particular reason you asked me to join you? Is there something you're in need of?"

Daenerys smiled softly. Even the night before the horror of war would fall upon them, his only concern was her safety and happiness, above all else. How could she not love a man like that? Why couldn't she love him enough?

"I didn't wish to be alone." She admitted. She'd spent too much of her life alone, even when in the company of others.

"There are many who would be pleased to keep company with you." Jorah pointed out.

"But few that it pleases me to keep company with." She responded with a teasing smile.

Jorah bowed his head at the implied compliment. "There is no one that pleases me more to keep company with."

She knew that, had always known it and she thought now, perhaps she had always felt the same. She loved him with all her heart and he was dearer to her than any living being, save her dragons. He was more her family than Viserys had ever been. More her friend than any of her advisors. And perhaps more her lover than any of the men who had actually shared her bed. He was her true knight and the one person who gave her the courage to look back on her mistakes and the choices that had brought her to this point. Perhaps she could look back without getting lost, but only so long as her knight stood by her side.

"Have you eaten?" She asked.

"I have not."

She smiled at this, relieved for an excuse to keep him by her side a little longer. "Then sup with me this evening. In honor of remembering."

* * *

**Guys (and gals)! You are all just too awesome! A total of 19 reviews yesterday bringing us to the very exciting landmark of 100 review on this story. I am flabbergasted and touched by the show of support. And because of your said awesomeness, here is another special update for you as well as a teaser... you will still get your regularly scheduled Thursday update tomorrow and... it's a Jon POV that is over 2K words. **

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	16. Chapter 16: Jon

The shouts of men waiting for a fight rang out below, but they were muffled by the whistling wind atop the castle wall. Jon stared out into the darkness. He was both eager for and dreading the dawn. For the dawn would take Sansa away from this place and, he hoped, to safety. But it would also take her away from him

He thought back to that morning, which felt like days, rather than hours ago. When he'd awoken with auburn hair fanned out across his pillow and a pale, porcelain face, sleeping and peaceful on his chest and the woman he'd loved since before he knew what that meant wrapped safely in his arms, it had been sweeter than any dream. He wished every day of the rest of his life could start that way. That he could grow old that way until the years bleached the red of his loves hair, leaving it as white as snow. He wished, more than he'd ever wished anything, that they had more time. And though he would not have her in Winterfell when the fighting started for all the time in the world, he would hate to see her leave knowing he may very well never see her again.

"Have you told her yet?" Sam asked, wrenching Jon from his thoughts.

He looked over at his friend, it took him a moment to piece together what he was talking about. Daenerys… not Sansa.

"No."

"Mm-hmm," Sam grunted. "Being careful. Biding your time. Waiting for the perfect…"

Jon looked at Sam and saw the realization in his eyes when he realized that Jon had no intention of ever telling her.

Sam opened his mouth to say something but was stopped by the sound of footsteps climbing up to join them.

Edd stepped up and between them, looking out into the night.

"And now our watch begins." Edd said in his low raspy voice.

A shiver ran through Jon. When his last watch began, it ended in his death. He could only hope history would not repeat itself.

"Gilly? Little Sam?" Jon said, to broach the topic he'd joined Sam to discuss in the first place, though now with Edd here it would be more challenging.

"They'll be safe down in the South." Sam said, his voice shaking slightly despite his efforts not to let his building fear show.

"Join them…" Jon started. "Protect them."

"Everyone seems to forget that I was the first man to kill a White Walker." Sam said, riled up by his wounded pride. "I've killed Thenns."

"Thenn." Edd corrected

"I've saved Gilly more than once." Sam pressed on. "I stole a considerable number of books from the Citadel library, survived the Fist of the First Men." He paused. "You need me here."

"Well, if that's what it's come to," Edd said, "we really are fucked."

"Well, calling you "fucked" wouldn't be strictly accurate." Sam jabbed.

Jon chuckled despite himself.

"Samwell Tarly. Slayer of White Walkers. Lover of Ladies." Edd said. "As if we needed any more signs the world was ending."

Sam sighed. "Think back to where we started…. Us, Grenn, Pyp."

The memory of their fallen brothers turned the teasing mood dark.

"Now it's just us three." Jon said.

"Last man left, burn the rest of us." Edd charged them.

They stared out into the darkness off a wall far different from the one that had brought them together, though their purpose was the same. To defend the realms of men.

"We should turn in." Jon said, as much as he cared for his brothers, every second he spent here was a second not with Sansau. "We'll all need to be sharp for battle to come."

Edd nodded and embraced first Sam then Jon before climbing down from the wall. Sam moved to follow him when Jon reached out and caught his arm.

"Sam…" Jon said. "I need you to go to the Iron Islands with the women tomorrow."

Sam puffed up with fresh insult. "I can fight."

"I know… but there's something else I need you to do. Something more important."

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"I need you to live."

Sam's lip trembled for a moment, but then he nodded.

"And one more favor…"

* * *

Jon counted the passing minutes he spent beneath the great old tree, wondering if Sansa had found his message yet. He'd left it in his room for her, knowing she would come like she'd promised. He wanted nothing more than to spend their last night together, but there was something he had to do first.

Jon stood beneath the ancient tree, waiting. She would come, of that he had no doubt, but his heart pounded painfully in his damaged chest as his nerves mounted. He'd fought wildlings and walkers, he'd fought longer and harder than he cared to remember, but none of those encounters had shaken him quite like this.

_The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember that._ Joer Mormont had warned him once. He wondered if his former commander would prove right. Now that Daenerys knew the truth, at least part of it, he felt somewhat freed. With the only living former lover with a claim to his affections aware that those affections resided elsewhere, he felt free to love Sansa. Despite the remaining lie that loomed between them, he could give her all of himself. She could have everything that was Jon Snow. And though she couldn't know it, she could have everything that was Aegon Targaryen as well.

"Jon?" Sansa called to him in a loud whisper as she approached the tree.

He went to greet her and brushed his lips to her cheek. "Thank you for coming."

"What are we doing here?" Sansa asked with half a laugh as Jon drew her to the base of the weirwood where Sam waited.

"I'd marry you, Sansa, this very night, this very moment, if you'll have me." He told her.

"We can't marry… we're siblings." Sansa protested, admitting for the first time the sin she believed they were committing. How he longed to ease her mind, but no… she was safer not knowing.

"But do you love me?" Jon pressed.

Sansa glanced at Sam, then seemed to recognize that he would not be here if Jon did not trust him implicitly. "You know I do."

"Everything before the word 'but' is horseshit." He reminded her.

Ned Stark's old saying made her laugh despite herself.

"Jon… I was married beneath this tree once before. I was stripped of my name and dignity…" She reminded him, her voice shaking slightly. "I have no intention of spending my remaining days as anyone other than Sansa Stark."

Jon took both her hands and squeezed them reassuringly. "You told me I'm a Stark to you. And you will always be a Stark to me, no matter my surname."

Sansa let out a slow, contemplative breath.

"Will you marry me?" He asked.

Sansa swallowed hard and nodded.

He felt a surge of relief at her response and looked to Sam.

"Lady Sansa, do you accept this man as your husband?" Sam asked, acting as witness.

"I take this man." Sansa nodded.

Still hand in hand, Jon knelt before the heart tree and Sansa followed his lead.

He bowed his head as the ceremony demanded in a token of submission and took a moment to thank the old gods for this woman before him. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he thought perhaps there was a higher power looking down on him in a kindly manner. Because if everything he had endured had been to lead him to this moment, he would gladly suffer it all again.

He rose and helps Sansa to her feet before unfastening her cloak and replacing it with his own, the copy of Ned Stark's which she had made for him.

He kissed her forehead and closed his eyes to embrace every piece of this moment. He knew well that there were few perfect moments in life, but this was surely one of them. He wanted to memorize every part of it. The smell of her hair, the feel of her porcelain skin, the way that here in the godswood the rest of the world fell away for just this moment.

"I love you." He murmured against her skin.

He felt her hand rise to caress his face and he leaned into her touch.

"I will always love you, Jon Stark." She promised.

Jon's breath caught in his lungs. She'd told him he was Stark to her before, but she'd never called him a Stark. Even now, knowing his true name, hearing her claim him as a Stark meant more than anything in the seven kingdoms.

He looked into her eyes and then kissed her like his life depended on her.

After their small moment of perfection, he drew slowly away from her, caressing her cheek and leaning in for a quick second kiss.

"I am yours." He promised her. "From this day until my last."

"Make that a very long time." She whispered for just him to hear.

He nodded and looked into her intelligent and beautiful eyes.

"Go back to our chambers." He whispered, if felt strange but fitting that the chambers which had once belonged to Ned and Catelyn should belong now to the two of them. "I'll come to you."

Sansa glanced at Sam and then nodded and disappeared into the night, wrapped in Jon's cloak.

Jon waited until he was sure that she was out of hearing. "Will you do it? Will you go South?"

"I will." Sam promised.

"And if I should die in the battle?" He stared into the darkness instead of looking back at his friend.

"I'll tell her the truth… All of it." Sam said. "I'll give her what she needs to defend her claim on the North."

Jon nodded. He didn't care about a crown or a throne, but he did care about Winterfell. And there would always be a Stark in Winterfell, if by his life or death he could assure it.

* * *

_Oh, we all do our duty when there's no cost to it. Honor comes easy then._

Maester Aegon's long dead wisdom troubled him as he made his way through the castle. If Jon was a better man he would not have given in to the promptings his heart. He would not have kissed Sansa in the godswood after learning he wasn't her brother. He certainly wouldn't have married her that very night, knowing that she openly opposed his queen.

_Yet, sooner or later, in every man's life, there comes a day when it is not easy. A day when he must choose._

But Jon realized now that he was not as good as a man as he tried to be. Honor compelled him to serve Daenerys. He truly believed she could be a good queen. But his heart compelled him to protect Sansa, no matter the cost. If he'd known what it would mean to love her, he never would have let himself start… but he'd never chosen to love her. He simply did.

_You must make that choice yourself._

She'd given him the will to fight again when he thought he had no fight left in him. She was his reason. She was his reason to die, and moreover his reason to fight like hell to remain among the living.

_And live with it for the rest of your days._

He'd done what he thought was right before and been murdered for it and he would never forget what Ser Davos had said to him when he said he failed… to go fail again. He'd failed to be as honorable as Ned Stark. He'd hurt Daenerys and he'd set Sansa in her crosshairs.

He kept trying to do right and he kept failing. But this was the one thing he couldn't fail. He couldn't fail to keep Sansa safe. If he did, nothing else would matter. The dead could have him if he lost her.

Jon let himself into his chambers, the ones that he would now think of as theirs, so long as Winterfell stood.

He saw her standing before the fire in only her shift. The sight of her took his breath away. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. She leaned into him, gently nuzzling his cheek.

"You're a fool." She said, by way of greeting.

Jon chuckled softly because the insult lacked a bite.

"I supposed I am." Jon agreed. "So what does that make you?"

"The wife of a fool." She murmured and turned around in his arms to face him. "Why did you do it?"

"Do what?" Jon asked.

"Marry me."

Jon kissed her lips and traveled along her jaw.

"Because she knows." He said. "She knows I love you."

"Daenerys."

Jon nodded.

"So you married me to spite her?" Sansa asked, she didn't sounds upset, so much as mulling over his words and reasons.

"No."

"Then why?" She pressed.

"Why did you?" He countered. "It wasn't wise."

"Because I love you." She said simply. "And I want to continue to love you. As much as I can and for as long as I can."

"I married you so that you will always know that I am yours. Everything I have… everything I am." He told her.

"So in other words I'm welcome to your sword and furs?" She teased.

He chuckled. "Something like that."

"I'm yours as well." She promised. "Everything I have… everything I am."

He reached up and untied her shift, easing it off her shoulder so it could slide off her body.

He took his time, kissed every inch of alabaster skin. She pulled him back up as she untied and slow removed his many layers until he was as naked as she.

"You're so beautiful." He murmured.

"Promise me this isn't how our story ends." She whispered.

He cleared his table with a sweep of his arm and lifted her onto it. His hands slid up and down her legs and eased them apart. She caught his lips in a kiss and he felt the wetness between her thighs to make sure she was ready for him before thrusting into her. She drew a startled breath and bit his lip hard as she slowly relaxed into the feel of him. He didn't move, not until she wrapped her legs around him to drawing him deeper into her warm and inviting depths.

"This isn't where our story ends." He promised, more moan then words, lost in the feel of her tight and hot around him. Then he began moving at a slow and torturous rhythm.

He tangled his hands in her hair and pulled her head back so he could place searing kissed along her throat as he slowly thrust into her.

She made soft noises that drove him mad. He needed more. He needed all of her.

She raked her nails down his back and he groaned in pleasure.

"What happens… when your queen… seeks to separate us?" She gasped, moving with him.

His hands slid over her ass, gripping it with both hands so he could drive into her with even more force. He heard her gasping and moaning as his thrust came faster and harder.

"Nothing…" He grunted, placing biting kisses along her shoulder. "Will separate us."

He felt her nip at his jaw and tangle her hands in his hair until he had no choice but to look at her. He wanted to kissed her, but stopped himself. Instead he continued his frenzied thrusts, desperate to send her over the edge. He wanted to see her come apart in his arms.

"I am yours." She breathed, her words taking him back to his dream of the Iron Throne when he'd made love to her in the moonlight.

He felt her come and watched as the pleasure spasmed through her body. Her eyes were closed and her face an exquisite image that he would carry with him all his days.

With one final thrust, he spilled inside of her, no longer afraid of fathering a bastard. Because he was not a bastard and no child that came from their union would be either. She was his wife. And if she bore any children, they would be true born. Truer than she could even know. And for one blissful second, he wished to get her with child. He wished for years and years to make love to her and to fill Winterfell with a new generation of wolves. He wanted to see her big with his child and he wanted to know that they could live their lives in peace. And while it might not be possible, it was a beautiful dream of spring that he would hold on to all through the long night.

* * *

**As promised! I'm a sucker for parallels... Hope this chapter was everything your Jonsa heart desired, and if you're not a Jonsa shipper, I hope it didn't cause you too much pain! ;) Thank you again for all the reviews this week, it has been incredible and really helpful in keeping me motivated. I hit a chapter that I was struggling to get written and you all pushed me through that mini block. I adore you all!**

**Please review! **


	17. Chapter 17: Tyrion

The dead were coming. They'd be there before the next sunset. The knowledge should have filled Tyrion with terror. But it didn't. All he was felt was numb. Despite knowing he would be retreating in the morning with the women and children like an invalid, he felt no fear or shame or anger. The only thought that plagued him was a pressing wish that the Dornish win in his cup might never run dry.

"I wish Father were here." He said to the crackling flames more than to his brother beside him.

He noticed Jaime giving him a rather incredulous look.

"I would love to see the look on his face when he realizes his two sons are about to die defending Winterfell." He explained.

All Tywin's Lannister pride and for what? A couple of middle age fools would would likely never live to pass on the Lannister name to a true born son or daughter. Not that Tywin would consider any child by Tyrion's getting a true born Lannister.

Jaime stared at him for a moment and then snorted in amusement. "That would be something to see."

The wind whistled through the great hall and the old castle groaned in protest. Tyrion wonder how many winters the honorable and drafty building had endured. Would it endure this one as well or be brought to ruin like some many other stronghold that had already fallen before the dead.

"I remember the first time we were here," Tyrion said. "The first time I saw this hall."

"Mm." Jaime grunted.

"You were a golden lion." Tyrion said, somewhat longingly. He'd always admired his brother. It was strange to look back and realize that when he'd thought his brother to be at his best, he was truly at his worst. Now at his worst… brought low by a crippling injury and a number of humbling experience, perhaps now he could become his best. "I was a drunken whoremonger. It was all so simple."

"It wasn't so simple." Jaime said. "I was sleeping with my sister and you had one friend in the world… who was sleeping with his sister."

"I was speaking in relative terms."

Jaime smirked a little. "Do you miss it?"

Tyrion wondered if Jaime meant the whoremongering or the people they'd been before this endless bloody war. He supposed it didn't truly matter. The answer was the same either way.

"Of course I miss it."

"Well, my golden-lion days are done, but whoremongering is still an option for you." Jaime pointed out.

Tyrion sighed. "It's not. Things would be easier if it were." He raised his cup. "The perils of self-betterment."

Jaime returned the gesture and both brothers raised their cups to their lips, just as one of the doors to the hall opened. Jaime looked around and his cup instantly lowered from his lips. Tyrion saw no need for such drastic actions so took a deep swig as he looked around to see who had intruded on their private counsel. Perhaps as Hand of the queen he could order them away so they could continue to drink in peace until they'd both passed out.

Jaime rose abruptly to his feet. "Oh! My lady."

Tyrion noted his brother's reaction to the appearance of the the tall blonde Brienne. She was not much too look at, though Tyrion didn't think that was a particularly grievous sin. He, himself, had never been considered beautiful. He was the stunted little lion next to his proud and beautiful siblings, but beauty often masked all sorts of horrors as anyone who'd had the displeasure of knowing Cersei could attest. But the way Jaime looked at this tall wench, well, it was almost as though she was beautiful.

Brienne's stride slowed as she recognized the two men and Podrick, at her heel, slowed in time with her. "Oh, we didn't mean to interrupt. We were just looking for somewhere warm to…"

"To contemplate your imminent death." Tyrion provided. "You've come to the right place."

He got to his feet to refill his cup.

"You want some of this piss?" He offered. "It's not bad. It's not good either."

Pod started toward him, practically licking his lips. "Thank you, milord."

"I don't think that's wise." Brienne said sharply. "The last thing you need is to be hungover for the battle to come."

Pod looked back at her and Tyrion could tell as much as the poor boy wanted and had likely earned a good drink, he wouldn't take one without her blessing.

Seven hells. The woman might be strong and skilled and honorable, but she certainly wasn't a whole lot of fun. Then again, Tyrion had never considered Cersei to be much fun and Jaime had always been captivated by her as well.

"Half cup." Brienne conceded.

"And you?" Tyrion called to her as he filled Pod's cup to overflowing.

"No, thank you." Brienne said. "I should try and get some sleep."

Tyrion shared a conspiratorial look with his former squire as he handed him the sloshing cup.

"You really think any of us are going to sleep tonight?" Jaime asked. Tyrion looked over and noticed him add a chair beside his own… rather closer than necessary to his own considering the size of the great hall. "Join us."

"All right." Brienne looked over at Tyrion, her expression clear that she wasn't sure what to make of any of this, especially this overt bit of wooing. "Just a bit."

_She's a virgin_, Tyrion thought as he poured her a cup. Clearly in love with his brother and absolutely clueless about the possibility that those affections might be returned in kind.

Not that Tyrion could fault her there on either count. Jaime was widely considered one of the most attractive men in the seven kingdoms and it was almost as widely known and accepted that he was irrevocably in love with his own sister who just happened to be one of the most beautiful women living… at least she had been in her prime. But this woman in her prime was still nothing close to a beauty when compared even to an aging Cersei Lannister. What might this hulking woman imagine she had to offer a man like Jaime Lannister that he might want? But Tyrion also knew that his brother was not nearly as superficial as one might surmise. Jaime's best friend, after all, was a whoremongering imp with a heart of gold… well perhaps something not quite so fine as gold. Perhaps fools gold. Yes, that was more fitting.

That being considered, Tyrion didn't see it as so impossible for his beautiful brother to love an ugly woman. Not when that woman embodied so many of the things Jaime had once been and longed to be again.

Brienne took a seat and Tyrion studied her as he brought her a cup. Not that she noticed his attention, her gaze still followed Jaime as he moved to reclaim the spot beside her.

"Well, what do we have here?" Ser Davos said as he swept into the room.

"Ser Davos, join us." Tyrion suggested merrily. He couldn't recall the last time he had drunk so liberally and he had most definitely missed it.

"No, not for me, thanks." Davos said as he positioned himself in front of the fire. "Came here for this. I figured I could wait to die freezing my balls off out there or wait to die nice and warm in here."

The large redheaded wildling followed Davos in, but stopped beside Lady Brienne, leering down at her with all the finesse of a whore in a military camp.

"It could be our last night in this world, you know." He said to the rather alarmed lady.

The implied suggestion was so clear, that Brienne would have to be blind to miss it. Her cheeks flamed.

"Yes, well, I'm glad you're here." Brienne said and quickly realized her mistake as the wildling's eyebrows shot up enthusiastically. "Here fighting with us. Glad you survived Eastwatch."

As much as Tyrion enjoyed seeing her squirm, he thought he ought to do the chivalrous thing for once and rescue her from the uncomfortable moment.

"Would you like a drink?" He said to the wildling.

"Brought my own." The Wildling replied, lifting a horn.

Tyrion observed as several looks passed between the wildling, Brienne, and Jaime, but particularly the wildling and Jaime. The bearded man no doubt did not miss the closeness of Jaime's chair to the object of his obviously unwanted affections.

"They call you 'King Killer'." He announced, staring down the elder Lannister brother as though they were rivals for the affection of the _fair_ maiden.

"I'm sure someone does." Jaime said, glancing to Brienne.

"They call me 'Giantsbane'. Want to know why?" He dragged a chair over for himself, noisily, without waiting for a response. "I killed a giant when I was 10.

Then I climbed right into bed with his wife. When she woke up, you know what she did?"

Jaime leaned in like he wanted nothing more than to hear the end of the story.

"Suckled me at her teat for three months."

Brienne looked both alarmed and disgusted at the Wildling pressed on.

"Thought I was her baby." He explained. "That's how I got so strong." He looked lustily at Brienne who looked over to Jaime for help. "Giant's milk."

The wildling chugged his horn of ale, which Tyrion could only hope didn't contain giant's milk, slopping half down his front in the process.

Brienne watched, her disgust quickly overtaking her alarm. Tyrion watched the bemused expression on his brother's face as Jamie watched the lady. Ah… that was it. He liked her. He just genuinely liked her. Tyrion would go so far as to say he adored her. It was that simple and that incredibly complicated. Then again, romance was always that, both simple and incredibly complicated. A the wildling continued to chug his drink, Jaime turned his bemused expression on his brother, as though looking to Tyrion to confirm this was really happening.

"Maybe I will have that drink." Davos said, clearly seeing the sense in using alcohol to endure the present company.

* * *

**Literally the best sequences in season 8. So much of Episode 2 was absolute gold. I will still be doing my Thursday post, but it's highly unlikely I'll manage a weekend post as I'll be at the Ace Comic Con in Seattle. If you want to see pictures of me fangirling over Chris Evans like a complete dork, you are welcome to hit me up on Instagram, my username is missgreeneinthelibrary. I may or may not have a suitcase full of cosplay related items for this weekend just waiting for Thursday when I'll hop a plane to the West Coast. While, unfortunately, I'll probably be too busy/distracted to post this weekend, I will probably get a fair amount of writing in as flying is one of my go-to writing place. There's something about being strapped in a seat for hours with nothing else to do that really gets the creative juices going. XD**

**Please review!**


	18. Chapter 18: Arya

Arya found the Hound sitting up on the wall. Drinking alone in the dark. Even now, the night before life as they knew it would end, he was alone. She wasn't surprised. The man had never been pleasant, let alone friendly. Still… there were moments from their time together that she looked back on with genuine fondness. She supposed that was one of the upsides of going to the faceless men and stripping away every piece of the person you used to be. It gave a person the chance to see a different perspective on their life events.

The Hound noticed her approach sooner than most would. He looked at her for a moment and then held up his flask for her to take.

She took the flask and a seat on the frozen bricks at his side. After a long draw of the bitter, burning liquid, she let out a heavy sigh.

"You never used to shut up." The Hound snapped without ever even looking at her. She preferred that. She didn't like being seen. She supposed that was something on which they could agree. After a lifetime of garnering screams and stares with a half burnt off face, he probably didn't much like being seen either. "Now you're just sitting there like a mute."

Arya considered his words, trying to remember the little girl he was talking about. It was almost like trying to remember a dream, slippery as water. "Guess I've changed."

They fell into a long silence.

"What are you doing up here?" She asked.

"What's it look like?"

"No, I mean, what are you doing up here? You joined the Brotherhood. You went beyond the Wall with Jon. You're here now. Why?" She demanded. "When was the last time you fought for anyone but yourself?"

She studied the side of his impassive face. She wondered what it would be like to play the game of faces with this man. What would she learn? Who would she be if she chose to take on that mutilated mask?

"I fought for you, didn't I?" He asked.

The slap of his words hit her harder than the icy winds. She realized he had fought for her. At the time, she hadn't seen it that way. She's seen the hulking beast of a man who kidnapped her for the money selling her back to her family would make him. But when her mother and brother were slaughtered by the Frey's he did not cast her aside or, worse, sell her to the Frey's or Bolton's to suffer the same fate Sansa faced at their hands. Instead he changed his plans and tried to deliver her to an aunt she couldn't even remember. Eventually, his actions seemed less about profit and more about getting her somewhere safe, like he'd failed to do for her sister. She hadn't seen it at the time, too blinded by the pain of loss and hatred for anything to do with the Lannisters, but it was easier to see clearly in hindsight.

He reached out for the flask and she passed it back to him. He took a long swig. When he lowered the flask, he noticed Ser Beric approaching them.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." He complained. "May as well be at a bloody wedding."

"My lady." The one-eyed knight said with a slight incline of his head. "It's good to see you again. I'm sorry we parted the way we did."

She felt a small surge of hatred for Ser Beric, an echo of the memory of the all consuming hate she'd felt when he'd sold Gendry to the red woman.

"Was he on your list?" The Hound asked, almost conspiratorially.

"For a little while." She admitted.

She saw a glint of amusement in the old dog's eyes.

"That's all right." Beric said, taking a seat, as though she needed his permission or forgiveness, neither of which she cared about or wanted. "The Lord of Light has brought us together all the same. This is his moment. When light…"

The Hound cut him off. "Thoros isn't here anymore, so I hope you're not about to give a sermon. Because if you are, the Lord of Light's gonna wonder why he brought you back 19 times just to watch you die when I chuck you over this fucking wall."

Beric chuckled and reached out for the flask. After a moment the Hound tossed it to him.

Nothing… Arya realized. This made her feel nothing. And that's really what she was after, she realized. She was looking to feel something again. She thought perhaps she'd forgotten how to feel during her time in Braavos. Perhaps she'd gone too far down the path to becoming no one to ever truly feel like someone again. She'd killed all the males in the Frey line and felt nothing. She'd slit Littlefinger's throat and felt nothing. She'd bound and gagged Daenerys's advisor Missandei of Naath and left her in the crypts and felt nothing. She'd lied and killed and crept unseen through the shadows of Winterfell all the while feeling nothing. Not even the knowledge of Jon and Sansa's incestuous relationship had been enough to cut through the numbness. But, there were the occasional bright bursts of something. Someone who made her feel like Arya Stark instead of no one.

She rose to her feet and walked away.

"Where are you going?" The Hounds called after her.

"I'm not spending my final hours with you two miserable old shits." She informed him curtly. No… She was going to feel something.

* * *

Arya practice with a bow close enough to the forge to draw the attention of anyone who might still be working. Considering that everyone seemed to be trying to make the most of their last night, she thought the only living soul likely to be still hard at work was a handsome bastard with something to prove.

She sensed his presence, but took a final shot before looking back at him. He walked over to her with a weapon in hand. Her weapon.

"That for me?" She asked, though she clearly recognized the design as that of the one she'd given to him.

He extended the spear to her and she took it, turning toward the torchlight to get a better look.

"This'll work." She decided, spinning the specialized spear to check the balance. Perfect… she wasn't surprised. She never imagined that Gendry would send her into the Long Night with anything less than the best weapon he could manage.

"Last time you saw me, you wanted me to come to Winterfell." Gendry said. "Took the long road, but…"

"What did the Red Woman want with you?" She asked, interrupting wherever he was planning to take his thought. He ducked out of her way as she walked past, still spinning her new spear.

"She wanted my blood for some kind of spell." He said.

"Why your blood?" She asked. She couldn't help but notice the lines on his forehead. Worry lines. Had they been there before? She supposed he didn't have as many worries back when she'd known him.

"I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard." He said, looking back at her.

This stopped her in her tracks. She looked him over, trying to remember what the old fat king had even looked like. She couldn't picture King Robert, but she could remember how her father had described his friend in his prime, and that description was very much like that man before her.

"I didn't know until she told me." He explained. "Then she tied me up, stripped me down, put leeches all over me."

Naked… she'd striped him naked. Arya had always hated the red woman, but now she felt something else, something bitter and hot that make her skin itch.

"Was that your first time?" She asked.

"No, yeah, I've never had leeches put all over my cock."

"Your first time with a woman." She corrected, walking away from him so he wouldn't see whatever was written on her face. She was used to maintaining a blank mask, but she wasn't sure what he would see now.

"What? I… I didn't I wasn't with her." He stammered, following her.

"Were you with other girls before that in King's Landing?" She pressed on, not knowing why she was asking, only that she had to know. "Or after?"

Gendry stammered, but no distinct words came out.

"You don't remember?" She chided.  
"Yes, I was." He admitted.

Her stomach turned sour and for the first time in longer than she could remember she felt the strong desire to add names to her list. All she'd cared about in a long time was checking names off, not adding them.

"One? Two?" She pressed. "Twenty?"

"Well, I didn't keep count."

"Yes, you did."

He sighed heavily, seemingly realizing he wasn't getting out of this conversation without telling her what she wanted to know. "Three."

She drew closer to him, looking over the face that she had at times hated and at times felt was the only face in the world she cared to see again. But that was a long time ago. Back when she still felt. So why did her insides feel so warm now?

"We're probably going to die soon." She said.

"Probably" He agreed.

She checked the balance of her weapon once more for good measure. "I intend to live."

Gendry chuckled and the sound pulled the hint of a smile to her lips.

"I'll make you a deal, Robert's Bastard." She pressed on. "We both live through this. I'll be your fourth."

Gendry stared at her for a moment as though trying to decide if she was kidding. His expression shifted to one of stunned shock so he must have decided she wasn't. A slight smile played at his lips as he recovered his senses. "Yes, milady."

* * *

"No, no, NO!" Arya laughed, more at ease sitting on a pile of hay next to Gendry Waters than in the lofty comforts of her chambers with it's fine furs and warm fire. "That is not how it happened."

Gendry couldn't contain his own laughter. "That's exactly how it happened."

"I did not give you moony eyes." Arya protested.

"You were sitting up on a table or something so for once we were about the same height and you told me I could be your family, those pretty eyes of yours all big and watery." Gendry insisted.

Arya was startled for a moment by his calling her eyes pretty. She'd always been horse-face Arya or Arry or No One… never pretty.

She licked her lips because suddenly they felt uncomfortably dry.

"Not a chance." She said, though her protest sounded weak, even to her own ears.

"Admit it… you were smitten." Gendry teased, but she noticed an edge of something else in his eyes. Was it hope?

"Smitten with a big lumbering oaf like you? Hardly." She said.

She noticed the space between them seemed to be shrinking. How had that happened? She couldn't remember either of them moving.

"You know… you shouldn't insult people that are bigger than you." He murmured, reaching out and tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear.

Her breath caught in her throat. He'd said those words to her before, but they felt so different now. They felt like an offer, or perhaps a request.

"Then I wouldn't get to insult anyone." She whispered.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. It felt strange, but a good sort of strange. She pressed into the kiss, not wanting it to end.

Gendry pulled away and rested his forehead against hers. "I spent a lot of time wishing I'd taken you up on your offer to be your family back then."

"I thought… maybe… we'd be like one of Sansa's songs." Arya admitted, surprised by her own words. "That we'd disappear into the wood and forget about the rest of the world. That'd just be the two of us. But it wouldn't have been that way. We were just kids trying to survive in a world that was too big and too cruel. We would have lost each other somewhere along the way."

"We lost each other anyway." Gendry pointed out. He caressed her cheek. "Where did you go, after I left?"

"The Hound kidnapped me. We travelled together for a long while."

"Then you left him for dead." Gendry said, having overheard her conversation with the Hound the other day.

"I did…" She admitted. "And I've done far worse."

Gendry frowned. "We've all done far worse."

"You got anything to eat?" She asked. "I'm starved."

Gendry pulled out a small pouch of nuts and offered them to her. She grabbed one and tossed it into the air, catching it in her mouth with ease.

Gendry pulled out another nut and tossed it to her and she caught that as well.

"Not bad." He said.

Arya grabbed a nut and tossed it to him, he caught it but only barely.

They carried on, Arya catching every nut and Gendry, only about half of them.

"You're terrible at this." Arya teased as he missed another and it was lost in the hay.

"Am not." He laughed. "It's your lousy throwing."

"My throwing is flawless."

"If you say so, Milady."

She pinched him hard and he yelped and laughed before tackling her down on the hay. They wrestled a bit, but Arya found that she didn't want to beat him. This was one fight she didn't feel the need to come out on top at the end.

Breathless, Gendry stared down at her and moved his hands from pinning her wrists to interlacing with hers.

She arched up and caught his lips in another kiss, this one far less strange and far more insistent.

Slowly, they broke apart and she saw hunger in his eyes, but he rolled off of her and drew her into his arms. She was surprised to find how naturally she slid into place at his side, as though she was made to fit there.

"How'd you get so good at catching nuts?" He asked as she nestled against his strong chest.

She thought about the question and thought about how long and complicated the answer was. She wasn't sure that she wanted him to know all of it. What if he looked at her differently once he knew everything she'd done? But, the thought stirred a spark of hope, what if he didn't?

So she told him everything. The Red Wedding. Her time with the Hound. Her journey to Braavos and all she'd done during her time with the Faceless men. She even told him about the Freys and her brief reunion with Nymeria. And after she told him all the events, she told him the truth. She told him how she'd been numb so long that she could barely remember what it was to feel.

After it all, she drew a slow, shaking breath to recover herself.

"So I supposed, despite it all, I still became no one."

Gendry shook his head. "You've never been no one, Arya. You could never be no one."

Arya rolled her eyes, feeling another milady coming. "Let me guess, because I'm a lady."

Gendry caught her chin in his hand and gently tilted it up so she was looking into his eyes. Her heart did a strange little dance as he looked at her.

"Because you're you."

* * *

**So, FYI, I adore Gendry and Arya and I didn't mind this scene in the show, but I also felt as though Arya would have no intention of dying and therefore see no reason to jump Gendry's bones. He's the closest she's ever come to one of Sansa's stories or songs and I think there's a little part of her that would want to indulge in the romance of it. **

**Please review! **


	19. Chapter 19: Tyrion

Tyrion amused the group, save Brienne, with his bawdy joke about the ass and honeycomb as well as regaling the time when Pod pleasured a couple of whores so well they refused to charge him. If the squire had been cold before, he certainly wasn't after, judging by the shade of crimson his ears turned.

Then Jaime, his tongue loosened by several cups of wine, brought up the story of how he lost his hand. In his telling of it, it was because he got too mouthy, too used to being untouchable that he forgot that his last name and father meant very little to cruel men who were more interested in their own amusement than the gold they could get for a hostage.

"That's not true." Brienne spoke up as Jaime lamented his own foolishness. "You save my life. The price was your hand."

"I didn't save your life." Jaime protested.

A long look passed between the two of them, the intimacy of which was enough to make Tyrion uncomfortable.

"They were trying to rape me. I wouldn't have let them. I would have made them kill me first and we both know it." Brienne said, her gaze never leaving the man so many only saw as the Kingslayer but she clearly saw as something else. "If not for you, I would have died that night."

Jaime looked speechless for a moment and then gave a slight nod, "Then not so steep a price."

He quickly looked away and Tyrion couldn't help but notice the complete confusion on the woman's face. _He loves you, you fool,_ Tyrion thought, wondering how it was two people so clearly infatuated with one another could be so clueless to the other's regard.

The moment was swiftly interrupted by another of the Wildling's amusing, though greatly disturbing stories. This one about how he'd once fucked a bear. After which he gave Brienne a look that clearly indicated that he thought this account would impress and possibly arouse her. It did not.

As the hour grew late, conversation died out as thoughts of the battle to come rested heavily on the minds of six companions in the Great Hall. Tyrion was well aware that he had drunk far too much and felt certain the same could be said for each of them. Save, perhaps, Lady Brienne, whom he had noticed never refilled her cup.

Tyrion stared into the crackling flames like burning tongues of gold. _Fire and blood. _His queen's family words rang in his ears. He wondered, if perhaps each family's words were more of a warning than anyone gave credit. The Starks had always warned that Winter was coming, but now it was here and ready to claim the dwindling remains of the Stark house. After all, Jon was not a Stark and as it turned out never had been. Bran, if he could even still be considered Bran, would never father children. So what did that leave? An assassin and a politician. Both maids. Both incapable of carrying on the family name. Even if they survived the dead, in a few short decades the Stark name would fade to memory.

"It's strange, isn't it? Almost everyone here's fought the Starks at one time or another." Tyrion mused. "And here we are in their castle, ready to defend it. Together."

"At least we'll die with honor." Brienne said, nobly.

Jaime's eyes were on her almost as soon as the first word left her lips. Tyrion wondered if his brother even realized the depth of his affections for the warrior woman. He always have been slow on the uptake. But the way he looked at the lady. Surely he had some inkling.

"I think we might live." Tyrion said, optimistically.

Davos a snorted and Pod gave a subdued smile.

"I… I do." Tyrion insisted. "How many battles have we survived between us? Ser Davos Seaworth. Survivor of both the Blackwater and the Battle of the Bastards."

"All without a shred of combat ability." Davos said.

"Mm." The wildling grunted.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, fabled hero of the Siege of Pyke." Tyrion pressed on.

"Fabled loser of the Battle of Whispering Wood." Jaime added, rising to refill his cup.

Brienne's gaze followed him across the room and Tyrion felt quite sure that she loved his brother. It was not merely admiration and respect shining in her astonishingly blue eyes. No… She loved him, he was certain. She loved him and he loved her, but neither would admit it for fear that their affections would go unrequited. Bran's warning rang in Tyrion's head. _If there is love, is should be spoke. _Too long Jaime had been crippled by the tainted love shared between himself and Cersei. Tyrion wished for him to know something different, something better, even if it was only for a single night.

"Hear, hear!" Tyrion called after his brother, taking another drink before continuing, mulling over how best to encourage his brother to action. Then it hit him. "Ser Brienne of Tarth."

Brienne, whose gaze had been on Jaime, looked down at the reference to herself as as Ser. So he'd supposed right and his arrow had hit it's mark. The trap was set, now to guide Jaime to it.

"Defeated the Hound in…" He continued and then stopped as though he'd just realized his mistake. "Pardon me, Lady Brienne."

"She's not a ser?" The wildling asked, catching on instantly. He looked at the blonde woman with evident confusion. "You're not a knight?"

"Women can't be knights." She said.

"Why not?" He asked.

"Tradition." She said.

Tyrion imagined that explanation was particularly irksome to a woman such as Brienne, who could never hope to be traditional.

"Fuck tradition."

_Fuck loyalty. _Tyrion glanced at his brother to gauge his reaction. He saw the flicker of a smirk tug at one corner of the golden lion's mouth. There was a time and a place for things such as loyalty and tradition, but this was not that time or place.

"I don't even want to be a knight." Brienne lied. Her eyes locked with Pod and Tyrion could see a hint of pain in the squire's eyes. This woman whom the squire held in such high regard. Who trained him. Who had bested countless men, Jaime included. Who was doubtless more honorable and deserving than any knight living, could not be afforded the honor simply because she was born a woman.

Tyrion knew a little something about the unavoidable circumstances of an unfair birth.

"I'm no king." The wildling said. "But if I were, I'd knight you 10 times over."

_Put it together, Jaime._

"You don't need a king." Jaime spoke up.

_That a boy_, Tyrion thought proudly.

"Any knight can make another knight." Jaime continued, setting down his cup. "I'll prove it."

Jaime made his way to a more open space. "Kneel, Lady Brienne."

Brienne watched him for a moment and then scoffed, looking away. Tyrion thought he saw a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. She wanted this, probably always had. But like some many other things she'd likely wanted she'd been told her whole life that such things where not for someone like her.

"Do you want to be a knight or not?" Jaime pressed.

Slowly, Brienne looked to him, those astonishing eyes of hers wide and almost fearful. Afraid to open herself up to hope only to have it ripped away.

"Kneel." Jaime said, his voice as soft as a lover's.

Brienne looked to Pod as though for reassurance that this wasn't some cruel jest. Tyrion felt a twinge of sympathy for her. He also had been the butt of too many cruel jests. She must have found the encouragement she sought because she looked back to Jaime. He gave her a nod and she rose to her feet.

She sat down her cup and walked slowly to Jaime. Tyrion rose as well, walking around his chair for a better view.

When she reached Jaime, he nodded to Oathkeeper at her hip.

"Your sword." He prompted.

She considered him for a moment, before drawing the blade and offering him the hilt. His hand grazed hers as he took the sword. Tyrion thought he saw her flinch slightly at the contact, before she sank swiftly to one knee.

Jaime nervously adjusted his grip on Oathkeeper before raising it to touch lightly to her shoulder. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." He passed the sword to her other shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." And back again. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent."

He lowered the blade and she looked up at him, her eyes glittering in the torchlight.

"Arise, Brienne of Tarth a knight of the Seven Kingdoms." Jaime said, his eyes never straying from hers as though utterly captivated.

For a moment, Tyrion couldn't catch his breath. He'd never felt anything remotely close to what he saw pass between those two in a single, longing gaze.

Brienne rose to her feet.

For a moment, they stared at each other as though seeing each other for the first time and both were lost in what they saw.

Tyrion felt certain that if his brother hadn't known before that he was in love with the Maid of Tarth, he clearly knew now.

Jaime's mouth opened as though to speak.

The wilding began clapping, quickly followed by the others, and the spell was broken.

"Ser Brienne of Tarth!" Tyrion shouted. "Knight of the Seven Kingdoms!"

Brienne looked back to Jaime who gave her a nod and handed Oathkeeper back to its rightful owner before stepping away to allow her to bask in the moment, _her moment_.

She watched him walk back to the group and her face split into a wide and genuinely happy smile, the first of it's kind that Tyrion had ever seen on her face. And he saw in that moment what his brother must see every time he looked at the tall woman. Beauty, true beauty. A beauty that went far deeper than skin.

* * *

**Back from a long but incredibly fun weekend at ACE Comic in Seattle. I'm a bit sleep deprived (so sorry if I missed more typos than usual... I tried to catch them all!) and my poor feet where throughly abused after two days straight in high heels (though the resulting Scarlet Witch and Fem Bucky Barnes cosplays came together quite well, I do believe :D). But enough about my adventures! I hope you all enjoy this latest installment.**

**Please review!**


	20. Chapter 20: Jorah

Jorah finished his wine and rose to his feet.

"Good night, Khaleesi." He said.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "You're leaving?"

"I have duties to attend to." He said, though he wished he could stay here with her all night. Even just sitting by her side and talking to her… it was enough.

"More important than attending to your queen." She teased.

He chuckled softly. "We both know there is nothing more important to me."

He saw a soft blush color her cheeks. She knew the depths of his affections for her and would not or could not return them in kind, and out of respect, he did his best not to remind her of his love unnecessarily. He saw the pain it caused her each time the nature of his love for her became too clear. And as much as he loved her, he cared more about her happiness than his own. He, therefore, preferred to suffer in silence than to cause her any undo suffering.

"Why do you love me, Jorah." Daenerys asked, looking up at him with the careful crafted appearance of mild curiosity, but he saw something else, just beneath the surface. A need. Though for what, he could not say.

He looked at her for a long moment, trying to judge precisely how he should proceed.

"Not for your beauty, though you are beautiful." He said. "And not for your great deeds, though your deeds have been great." He knelt before her and reached out for her hand, which she gave to him. "I love you because you are the same young girl who was married to a horse lord against her will, but when gift a beautiful steed thought only to express gratitude. I love you because you are good. You are better than we deserve. Certainly better than I deserve." He swallowed hard and looked down. "I love you with no hope or agenda, simply because it is impossible not to."

Daenerys caressed his cheek and leaned in to press her lips against his rough cheek and he closed his eyes to memorize the moment.

"I forbid you to die in this war." She whispered in his ear. "Do you hear me, Ser Jorah?"

He smiled sadly, knowing there were no guarantees in war. "I will do my best, Khaleesi."

* * *

Jorah checked and double checked the preparations for the battle after leaving his queen. He saw his small cousin looking over her men. While little more than a child, he'd heard stories of his cousin, born after his exile. Like her mother before her, she was no great beauty, but in time she might grow to be a handsome woman. If she grew up at all.

"Lady Mormont." He said, approaching the small, proud figure.

Lyanna looked up at him as he approached. "Cousin."

"It seems you've done our family and the North proud." He said. "Your men will do you proud in the battle to come. I assure you."

Lyanna frowned at him. "I need no assurance. I'll see it myself."

His heart tightened painfully in his chest. "You don't mean to fight."

"I do."

"We have all we need to win this war." He protested.

"I have trained my men, women and children." The young Lady snapped. "I have fought before. I can fight again."

"Please, listen to me." Jorah said. "You're the future of our house."

"I don't need you to remind me of that." Lyanna said, scathingly, her rebuke reminding her that he was in no small part responsible for the weight that now rested soley her tiny shoulders.

"You'll be safer traveling south with the women and children." Jorah pressed. "These things we're fighting…"

"I will not retreat while my people fight." Lyanna insisted. "I pledged to fight for the North and I will fight."

With a heavy heart, he inclined his head in submission. He had forfeited the right to order her around when his dishonored his house as a slaver and earned exile.

Lyanna turned around, realizing before Jorah that they were being watched.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Samwell Tarly said. "I didn't mean to…"

"It's all right." Lyanna said. "We're done here."

She started back to her men but stopped and looked back at Jorah.

"I wish you good fortune, cousin."

"Thank you, my lady." Jorah said.

Sam cleared his throat and shuffled closer to Jorah. He noticed the hilt of a massive broadsword glimmering in the young man's hands.

"What have you got there?" Jorah asked.

"It's called Heartsbane." Sam explained. "It's my family sword."

"You still have a family." Jorah reminded him.

"Yes." Sam agreed. "And I'd love to defend them with it. But I can't really hold it upright. Your father, he taught me how to be a man. How to do what's right. This is right." He paused a moment. "It's Valyrian steel. I'd be honored if you'd take it."

Sam held the weapon out and Jorah took it, momentarily overcome by the gesture. He pulled the blade partway from the scabbard and admired the swirls in the Valyrian steel.

"I'll wield it in his memory to guard the realms of men." Jorah promised.

"I'll see you when it's through." Sam said and began to walk away, hesitating for a moment and looking back he said. "I hope we win."

Then he was gone and Jorah stood alone in the yard. One day more. This time tomorrow and they would be in a battle for their very existence. But here in this moment, he almost felt more like one of the dead. Everything that tied him to life was either already gone or forever out of his reach. His house, his title and lands, his wife, his family… his queen. He'd been fighting his whole life and he was beginning to wonder what the point of it all really was. It seemed there was no end to the fighting. And even if he should live to see that end, what then? What would life be once Daenerys accomplished her goal and broke the wheel. Would there be peace? He'd spent years by her side fighting for this better world of hers, but try as he might, he couldn't seem to see his own place in that better world.

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**Please review!**


	21. Chapter 21: Jaime

Jaime had lost track of the hour, but he was sure that dawn was unpleasantly close and his head was beginning to ache from drink and lack of sleep. He was ready and willing to lay down his life to stop the dead, but he'd prefer to give them something of a fight first, and, if possible, avoid the dying part all together.

His gaze strayed back to Brienne as it had so often through the long night. She looked drowsy and content, a warm blush in her cheeks from consuming more wine than she probably ever had before in her rather prudish life. The silly girl. She could kill a man, but balked at the idea of intoxication or intimacy. Intimacy... the very notion felt warm an inviting.

He admired the way the slight intoxication, softened Brienne's features, soothing away the scowl she frequently wore, as she temporarily allowed her guard to drop, if only slightly. While not delicate, there was something truly pleasing about her face. Particularly her eyes, which had always captivated him.

She looked up and their eyes met for a long moment, then she looked away, the color in her cheek going a shade darker.

Reluctantly, Jaime looked away as well.

"We'd better get some rest." He said.

"No," Tyrion protested. "Let's stay a bit longer."

"We're out of wine." Davos announced, returning from the table empty handed.

"How about a song?" Tyrion suggested. "One of you must know one." He looked hopefully to the old man. "Ser Davos?"

"You'll pray for a quick death." Davos assured him.

Tyrion smirked and looked to the newly knighted Brienne. "Ser Brienne?"

Jaime suppressed a laugh at the notion. He didn't know for a fact that she couldn't sing, but he could not, for the life of him, picture it.

Brienne confirmed his suspicion with an amused grimace and shake of her head.

Jaime's insistant little brother shot a look to Brienne's would-be wildling lover which elicited a grunt and shake of the ruddy red head.

Tyrion sat back in defeat.

"High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts." Podrick began to sing, his voice pleasing and strong. "The ones she had lost and the ones she had found and the ones who had loved her the most."

Everyone looked to the squire in various degrees of surprise at this unknown talent, but Jaime couldn't look away from Brienne. She seemed to glow in the dim hall. By this light, she was beautiful. She might be a stupid, stubborn wench with more honor than sense, but he wouldn't change a thing about her. No… he wouldn't have her be anything other than precisely what she was, because what she was… what she was… he struggled to let himself admit it. What she was… was the woman he loved.

And gods… he loved her.

"The ones who'd been gone for so very long she couldn't remember their names. They spun her around on the damp old stones spun away all her sorrow and pain and she never wanted to leave. Never wanted to leave. Never wanted to leave. Never wanted to leave. Never wanted to leave. Never wanted to leave."

Brienne looked at Jaime, her eye filled with a sadness he wanted to erase. If this was their last night before death claimed one or both of them, he wouldn't have her spend a moment of it in sadness. Not if he could help it.

He'd have her smile, as she did when he knighted her. He'd have her laugh. He'd have her happy, even if just for a few brief moments.

As the last notes of the haunting ballad faded away, the Maid of Tarth rose to her feet. Jaime followed suit, respectfully.

"It's quite late." Brienne said, stiffly. "I thank you all for passing the time with me this evening, but I must bid you good night."

She gave a stiff bow and swept from the hall without further ado.

Jaime felt the string between them grow taunt. He longed to follow, but though he knew his own heart, he was unsure if she'd want the same.

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she saw him as a friend and nothing more. Perhaps he'd imagined the way her gaze drifted to him a little too often, simply because he wished it would. After all, what could he offer her? His honor was shit. His love was tainted by a lifetime of loving his own sister. He didn't even have his sword hand. He was not worthy of her love, as much as he might want it.

He slouched in his seat, resolving not to follow her. He'd leave her to get the sleep she wanted in peace and not force her to reject a middle-aged, crippled knight and blight a hard earned friendship. He'd content himself with fighting for her beloved Starks, fighting for her. It was enough. No, that was a lie, it wasn't close to enough, but he'd find a way to accept it.

Tormund began to chug the remains of his drink as though preparing to leave as well. Perhaps to follow Brienne. The very idea made Jaime's stomach turn sore. When he pounded on her door, would she let him in? She wasn't promised to any man, so what was to stop her? She might be a maid, but she'd never been overly concerned by the mandates of tradition.

A hand on his arm made him jump, even as the familiar voice of his brother whispered in his ear. "She loves you, you know."

"Who?"

He could practically hear Tyrion rolling his eyes. "You know who."

Jaime looked at his overly perceptive brother, "She doesn't love me."

"You think not?" Tyrion raised his eyebrows. "Maybe I'm wrong." He paused thoughtfully. "Though, I could also be right… And considering that we will all very likely die tomorrow night, it doesn't seem to me that you have all that much to lose."

Jaime looked over at Pod who was watching this exchange, and although he certainly could not hear the words, Jaime had a sneaking suspicion that the squire had a fairly good idea of the topic. Pod met his gaze and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

Jaime's chest tightened with hope and fear and he wished that his cup wasn't empty. He could use a bit more liquid courage. But if there was ever a moment to be bold, this was it.

Tormund rose to his feet looking just as determined as Jaime felt. Jaime followed his lead and placed a hand on the wildling's shoulder to stop him.

"Sorry," He said, not feeling the slightest bit sorry. "That wench is spoken for."

* * *

**I know this chapters on the short side, but I hope you find it to your liking. Oh... and P.S. just to give you something to look forward to... the next chapter is a Brienne POV.**


	22. Chapter 22: Brienne

A knight… She was a knight. Jaime had knighted her. She didn't know if it would truly count by the laws of the land, but it counted to her. Because Ser Jaime saw her as a knight and so did every other man in that hall. She'd never felt such respect and acceptance in all her days and it filled her with warmth far greater than the intoxication from any drink.

She tossed another piece of wood on her crackling fire as she began to remove her armor. She set out her armor on a chair for the next day, moving to remove Oathkeeper last of all. A small piece of Jaime that was hers to keep. On a whim, she lift the pommel to her lips and pressed a light kiss to the carved lion. Her lion.

A loud thump at her door made her jump. She tenderly set Oathkeeper down beside her armor and strode to the door. Doubtless it would be Tormund. She'd felt the wildlings none-to-subtle gaze on her the whole evening. She took a deep breath in preparation for sending him away.

Her breath caught in her lungs as she opened the door to find Jaime leaning against the jam. He looked up at her, his eyes dark and relaxed from a long evening of drinking. Something seemed to burn in those beautiful eyes, something she didn't have a name for, but she told herself it must just be a trick of the light from the fire.

"Ser Brienne." Jaime said, formally, despite his slightly slurred speech. The use of her new title made her face hot.

"Ser Jaime." She said, confused by his presence.

"You going to invite me in?" He asked as he proceeded to let himself in without waiting for invitation.

She'd been prepared to send Tormund away, but never imagine a situation where she'd had the option to send Jaime Lannister away. She couldn't imagine a situation where she would want to send him away, and with that, the breath she'd been holding slipped out.

"Won't you come in." She said flippantly, slightly annoyed by his presumptive behavior.

He immediately removed his jacket and tossed it on her bed. "Gods… you keep it warm enough in here."

Brienne couldn't tear her eyes from the man who frequented her dreams, who's jacket now lay on her bed. She'd never imagined anything of Jaime's would ever be tossed so carelessly on her bed. She never really expected to find Jaime in her chambers unless it was a tent in a war camp.

"It's the first thing I learnt when I came to the North." She explained. "Keep your fire going. Every time you leave the room, put more wood on."

"That's very diligent." Jaime said, his tone mocking and she wondered after all his uncharacteristic niceties he was ready to slip back into his old habits of insulting her. "Very responsible."

How was it this was the same man who had knighted her mere hours before.

"Piss off." She snapped, suddenly thinking that there was actually several scenarios where she would want to send him away and this was shaping up to be one of them.

"You know the first thing I learned in the North?" Jaime asked, getting quite close to her. "I hate the fucking North."

Her heart hammered in her chest. She didn't think they'd been this close since the baths at Harrenhall and that thought reminder her of the feel of his hot, feverish flesh against hers. Her mouth went dry and she swallowed hard to regain her composure.

"It grows on you." She said, trying to shift their conversation in a safer direction.

Jaime turned away from her. "I don't want things growing on me."

A heavy silence fell between them. She didn't know what to say or why he was even there other than to be surly and insulting.

"How about Tormund Giantsbane?" Jaime asked abruptly. "Has he grown on you? He was very sad when you left."

"You sound quite jealous." Brienne said softly, surprised to hear those words come from her mouth.

"I do, don't I?" Jaime realized. He started struggling with the laces of his shirt. "It's bloody hot in here."

Despite his efforts, the knot would not come undone with one hand, he even tried to work on it with his teeth. The silly fool.

"Oh, move aside." She snapped, brushing his hand away so she could untie it for him. How was one of the greatest swordsmen Westeros had ever seen such a disaster? She'd never understand the man.

As she untied his shirt, his hand went to the laces of hers and she stopped and looked at him, confused. She wasn't the one complaining about the heat.

"What are you doing?" She asked

"I'm taking your shirt off." He murmured. But he stopped. "My honor's shit," He said, looking up into her eyes.

"Ser Jaime…" She wanted to protest, even thought she knew there was truth in his words.

"Jaime." He whispered, his fingertips going to her lips to silence her. "Call me Jaime."

She swallowed hard at the intimacy of his touch. "Jaime."

He closed his eyes as though the sound of his name on her lips was a caress sweeter than any he'd ever felt.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and met her gaze as he sank to one knee before her.

"What are you doing?" She asked.

"Brienne of Tarth, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms… My lady… I offer my service. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be." He said, his voice strong and clear. "I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Brienne stared down at him, perplexed by his oath, but then she sank down to her knees with him.

"Jaime Lannister… I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

She realized as she spoke the words that this was more than a promise. More than empty words of tradition and loyalty. It was a vow between two hearts that had long beat as one. A warrior's union. More of a marriage than any overseen by a septum.

With this realization, she reached out and slowly removed his shirt. She ran her hand over his bare chest and felt him shiver at her touch.

She knew they were entering uncharted territory, but she had no desire to stop. Instead, she slowly untied her own shirt and shrugged it off her broad shoulder.

His eyes raked over her bare skin with a look that she could only describe as adoration.

He reached out and took her hand, placing it over his pounding heart.

"It's yours." He said, his voice shaking. "It will always be yours."

She leaned in and kissed him, not caring if she did it right, not thinking of anything but touching him. His hands tangled in her hair as he pulled her closer and his lips guided her to a more tender pace. Slowly he deepened the kiss, his hands sliding over her body, caressing the parts of her that she'd allowed no man before him to touch.

"Jaime…" She moaned softly into his lips.

"I'm dreamt of you a thousand times since Harrenhall." He murmured, his lips on her ear.

She shivered at the heat of his breath on her ear, the heat drifted down to her core and throbbed there.

"Why didn't you say anything?" She asked.

"Because I didn't deserve you." He whispered as he lowered her down onto the rug in front of her blazing fire. "I still don't."

She felt the heat lick at her cheek, but it was nothing compared to the fire burning inside her.

Together, they did away with their remaining garments. Her heart pounded with desire and nerves.

"And now?"

"Fuck loyalty." Jaime murmured her words back to her.

He nudged her legs apart with his knee and she spread them for him. She'd prayed for his safety so many nights. She wondered if any of those prays played a part in bringing them back together.

He entered her slow and gently, giving her a moment to adjust to the new sensation. She'd heard it was supposed to hurt, but she'd been hurt so many times, that she didn't mind a little pain.

His lips captured hers in a searing kiss as he thrusted into her again and again, impaling her on his burning member. It was at once both pleasure and a form of torture that made her writhe and gasp his name over and over until she couldn't think of anything except for the exquisite sensation building inside her, pushing her over the edge, his name a like a prayer on her lips.

The sound of her coming undone seemed to drive him wild as his movements became harder and faster until he spilled into her.

For a long after, he just looked down into her eyes, his own wide with a mixture of disbelief and pleasure. Then a slight smirk played at his lips.

"Well, I suppose you're no longer the Maid of Tarth." He teased, leaning down to steal a kiss.

"Then what am I?" She asked.

"My wench." He teased, nipping her bare shoulder.

She laughed softly.

He pulled out of her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Turns out I was right all along. I am strong enough to get inside you."

She elbowed him. "Watch it."

He chuckled and kissed the hollow below her ear until all memory of insult faded away.

They moved to the bed and made love again before the cocks began to crow in the yard. They were wrapped in each other's arms as the first rays of morning spilt through her window.

"What happens when the dead come?" Brienne asked, suddenly aware of how few hours they had left.

Jaime shrugged. "We probably die."

For some reason, his words didn't frighten her. Nothing seemed all that terrible wrapped in the arms of the man she loved.

"And if we don't?" She asked.

"Then I'll grow old with the woman I love." He murmured against her lips.

* * *

**Because the "You sound jealous" moment was one of my absolute favorite moments of season 8, I had to work it in. I hope this chapter did my favorite darlings justice. As I'm sure you've gathered, I'm absolute Braime trash. Hope you all enjoyed!**

**Please review!**


	23. Chapter 23: Sansa

As morning undeniably dawned, Sansa slowly extricated herself from Jon's arms and pulled on her shift.

"Stay a little longer." Jon protested, one hand snaking around her waist, drawing her back into the bed.

She leaned over and kissed him softly. "I'd stay forever if I could."

She wound one of his dark curls around her finger and rested her forehead against his, staying that way for a long moment. She wished fervently to freeze time, but time was a fickle god who knew no master.

If it was just her own safety at stake, she would consider it a worthwhile risk to stay by his side, even as the dead threw themselves upon the walls of Winterfell. She would give anything that was hers to give to stay in his arms for every second of the rest of her life. But the welfare of her people weighed heavier on her heart than her own wishes.

Jon brushed kisses across her cheeks. Her Jon. And he was hers. She knew he would not have made the vows he made to her beneath the weirwood tree lightly. He was an honest man. Honestly hers. She was far less honest. Her tutelage at the hands of Cersei and Littlefinger had taught her to use and manipulate. But this... these quiet moments with Jon where the only ones in her day entirely devoid of guile. With Jon, she could allow herself, if temporarily, to be the woman she'd thought she'd be rather than the one life had forced her to be. With Jon, she could be devoid of lies and simply be his Sansa.

"I'll see you off in the yard." Jon promised, caressing her cheek.

She nodded, knowing it was best to keep that farewell a formal affair, but her chest already ached at the thought of saying goodbye to him, even if temporarily.

"You were my last thought." He whispered suddenly. "Before I died. My last thought was of you, here at Winterfell, brushing Lady. You were singing. I don't remember the song, but I remember the sound of your voice. Sweeter than any bird. I've carried you with me every day of my life since you came into it, Sansa. You made an indelible mark on my heart long before I knew what it meant. I love you. I always have"

Her heart pounded at his confession. His actions had convinced her that he loved her, but to hear just how much filled her with a warmth that she would cling to until he came back to her. She kissed him once more, desperate to over power fickle time and make these precious moments last a little longer.

"Then come back to me." She whispered. "When this war is over, you'd better come back to me."

He nodded and hugged her tight before letting her go. She pulled on her gown and he helped her with the laces. A lump tightened in her throat. But she couldn't cry, not when everyone was looking at her to be strong.

She walked to the door and looked back at Jon once more, memorizing the way he looked at her, because it was the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen.

"Gods I'm a lucky man." Jon told her.

She smiled softly. "I know."

* * *

Sansa found Bran and Arya in the deserted great hall, conversing in low whispers.

"There you both are." She swept across the room to join them.

Arya took a step back, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Sansa." She said in a cool greeting.

Sansa frowned slightly. She didn't know what she'd expected, but a warm farewell from her sister shouldn't have been it. While they'd developed something akin to respect since Arya's return to Winterfell, their bond still lacked the warmth she always imagined she would share with her only sister.

"I will be leaving within the hour." Sansa said. "I wanted to see you both before then."

"And I wanted to see you as well." Bran said, though his tone didn't indicate any strong desire one way or the other.

Sansa knelt before him and took his hand. "I wish you good fortune, brother."

"There is no need for such things." Bran said. "I must give you a warning."

Cold dread filled her as his hand tightened around hers, suddenly she wanted very much to pull away, but she made herself stay still.

"And what's this warning?" She asked.

"To survive the long night, you must bend the knee." Bran said.

"What do you mean?" She demanded, her stomach clenching in protest at the idea of bending the knee to Daenerys.

"When the moment arrives, you will know. And when it comes, act. If you hesitate, all is lost."

Sansa licked her lips, feel lost and uneasy, but she nodded. "I'll remember."

Bran nodded and then looked away from her, releasing her hand.

Sansa rose to her feet and looked to Arya, hoping that, if not tender, their farewell would be less troubling.

"I'll see you out to the yard." Arya said, and turned on her heel to walk toward the door.

Sansa hurried to catch up with her. They walked in silence until they got outside, then Arya turned to the crypts.

"Arya?" Sansa asked, in confusion, but Arya continued down the stairs without an explanation.

Sansa followed her sister down into the crypts and wondered, not for the first time, if her sister was friend or foe. They'd been allies against Littlefinger, but whether that was an alliance out of necessity or out of loyalty she'd never been entirely sure. On her part, it was loyalty. They were a pack. She'd learned the value of family when she was left among lions without a friend in the world. But Arya… She didn't know what side Arya was on anymore. She didn't know the first thing about Arya anymore and she wasn't sure she ever had.

The torches flickered dimly in the crypt and Arya strode purposefully to the statue of their aunt Lyanna.

Sansa opened her mouth to demand some sort of explanation but the words died in her throat as Arya dragged out a bound and gagged figure. Sansa took a step closer because the dim light made it hard to see.

"Missandei?" She whispered in disbelief. She knew the queen's advisor by sight but not personally. "Arya, what have you done?"

"I'm protecting our family." Arya said, drawing her delicate sword, the one she called needle.

"And what threat is she?" Sansa demanded.

"She saw you." Arya said.

"So?" Sansa asked, not understanding the significance.

"She saw you go into Jon's chambers." Arya explained.

Sansa's heart nearly stopped because between Arya's expressionless mask and the burning resentment in Missandei's eyes she understood completely.

"So what, you're planning to kill her?" Sansa asked, unable to suppress the annoyance in her voice.

"If necessary." Arya shrugged.

"Well, it's not necessary." Sansa snapped, grabbing the knife from Arya's belt and carefully sawing through Missandei's bindings so as not to cut the poor woman. "I won't condemn a good person to keep my secrets safe."

Missandei pulled out her gag and looked Sansa over with open hostility.

"I'm sorry." Sansa said to the advisor, knowing those words probably meant very little in the wake of a night spent bound and gagged in a crypt expecting an imminent death.

"Are you going to beg me to keep my silence?" Missandei sneered.

Sansa shook her head. "Daenerys knows, or at least suspects, already. Please just go in peace and safety."

Missandei frowned at her in confusion for a long moment before retreating from the crypts.

"That was stupid." Arya said.

"Maybe." Sansa admitted, passing the knife back to her sister. "But what's the point in surviving if we become monsters in the process?"

Arya nodded and tucked away the knife. "Good."

"Good?" Sansa frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You're not Cersei."

Sansa studied her sister for a long moment. "This was a test?"

"Of sorts." Arya slipped her needle back into it's scabbard and unfastened her belt, holding it out to Sansa. "Take this with you. It has served me well."

"I don't know how to use it." Sansa said, pushing the sword away.

"Stick 'em with the pointy end." Arya suggested, glibly.

Hesitantly, Sansa accepted the weapon.

"Thank you." Sansa whispered.

"I expect you to give that back to me." Arya said.

Sansa smiled slightly, realizing that her sister both cared and worried over her safety, even if it might not be easy to see.

"If it's anything like embroidery, that won't be a problem." Sansa said with a smile that she hoped was convincing. "I've always been good with a needle."

* * *

**I wasn't planning to do a third chapter this week, but between some incredibly kind reviews and some... less positive reviews I felt the need to share an author's note. After the last chapter I had two guest reviewers who felt the need to take the time to write a review to inform me that they would no longer be reading my story because it's not as they said, it's not a true "Jonsa pairing". For those who feel that there is not enough focus on Jon and Sansa, I'm sorry, but it won't be changing. Jonsa is the main pairing on my season 8, but as this is a multi POV character story, I can't just write chapter after chapter of interactions between Jon and Sansa while still moving the narrative forward. If you're looking for a story where the sole focus will be Jon and Sansa, that will never be this story. Episode 3 with have little, if any direct Jonsa interactions as these character will be in very different places during the battle. And yes, I do find it rather amusing that the very next chapter after these complaints was a Sansa POV. I promise, this was always the case and I didn't do any rearranging to make that happen. I did, however, get a good chuckle over the irony. **

**To all my wonderful readers and reviewers who have stuck with me so far and don't mind the multi POV character structure, I thank you for your support and kind words, as well as your patience when you have to wait a while for your favorite characters to pop back up! You are the reason I continue to put so much work into this story. You are all fantastic!**

**Please review!**


	24. Chapter 24: Jaime

Jaime watched Brienne sleeping. He'd have to wake her soon, but he didn't want to. He wanted to stay in this room with her for their rest of their lives, even if those lives where only a few more hours.

Honor compelled him to fight for Bran Stark, but he'd give anything to be standing by Brienne's side when the dead attacked. He had no great hope that a cripple like him would survive this war, but at least he could die in the arms of the woman he loved.

And he did love her.

She was not beautiful in the same way as Cersei. Cersei was undeniably beautiful. But what Brienne had was better, her beauty came from her honorable and gentle heart. Hers was a beauty that could not be erased or diminished by time. People had claimed Cersei to be the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms for decades, but they were fools. Anyone who couldn't see that Brienne truly was the great beauty, was only looking with eyes.

How had it taken him so long to see it, see her? He wished he could go back and do it over again. How different things might have been if he'd forsaken King's Landing and his sister when he send Brienne off in search of Sansa. How many nights could he have passed like this? It was unpracticed and far from the best sex of his life, but he did think he could safely call it the most meaningful. It was a night that he'd hold in his heart for all the days of his life.

No longer able to claim that the day was just barely dawning, Jaime rolled over and brushed his lips over Brienne's cheek. She woke with a start and had him pinned on his back before he could react.

He couldn't help the chuckle at the defensive reaction, doubtless cultivated by years of guarding herself from men who would do her harm just to say they'd been the one to do it.

"Easy, my lady." He murmured, his hand down her bare waist, more womanly than her armor would have the world believe. "I'm not going to have my way with you… unless you want me to."

A blush crept into her cheeks as the instinctual reaction of first waking faded and she remembered what had passed between them

"Sorry…" She said, easing up on her hold.

He pulled her down, wanting her body against his. "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Sorry?" He searched her beautiful blue eyes for regret. He'd taken her maidenhead. He'd pledged himself to her as a knight, but also, he hoped she realized, as a man. He did not take what she'd given him lightly. He knew he was undeserving of any part of her, let alone her love and honor. He only hoped she did not regret her choice.

She met his gaze for a long moment and then leaned down, brushing a light kiss against his lips. "No, I'm not sorry."

* * *

Jaime left Brienne's chambers, unable to wipe the stupid smile off his face. _You don't get to choose who you love_. Well, that was certainly true here. He never would have chosen to love her, but now that he did, he wouldn't have it any other way. It didn't erase the wrongs of his past or magically make him a good man, but it gave him a chance, a prayer at being the man his mother had hoped he would be and the one his father had told him to be.

"You climbed the mountain."

Jaime looked around to find his brother smirking knowingly at him. Jaime opened his mouth to deny it, but his smile wouldn't fade. Instead, he ducked his head to avoid saying anything that would give Brienne cause to be cross with him later.

"Come now," Tyrion chuckled, "Do you know how long I've waited to tell tall-person jokes?"

Jaime licked his lips, searching for a tasteful way to address what had transpired between him and Brienne. And finally the words came to him and he said, "I'm happy."

"I'm happy that you're happy." Tyrion said, falling in stride with his brother as they made their way to Jaime's chambers. "I'm happy that you'll finally have to climb for it."

Jaime let out a chuckle at that, figuring he owed his brother at least that much. "To climbing mountains."

Tyrion followed Jaime into his chambers and took a seat before the burned out fire. "What's she like down there?"

"Excuse me?" Jaime took off his shirt to change into a fresh one and chucked the old one at his impertinent brother. "That's not your concern."

"I haven't been with a woman for years." Tyrion lamented, wadding up the shirt and tossing on the floor. "Give me a morsel."

"You're a dog."

"So she was good." Tyrion surmised.

"It's none of your business."

"I am the Imp, and I demand to know."

"Tyrion, she's not some whore." Jaime said, feeling a strong desire to keep all the private words and feelings that had passed between them secret and safe. Some things were no meant to be shared with anyone else.

"Of course she isn't." Tyrion chuckled. "She's your wench."

From the imp's smirk, Jaime had a feeling his brother was fully aware of just how much those words meant when referring to a certain female knight.

"She's my wench." Jaime agreed.

"I knew you were fucking her." A figure stepped out from the shadows, holding a crossbow. "A pair of tall, blond toffs. Must be like looking in the mirror."

Jaime stared at the sell sword, busily digesting the sight before him. Bronn was in the North, first cause for alarm. Bronn had snuck into his chambers with a crossbow, probably had been there all night, waiting. This was not a friendly visit.

"Ser Bronn of the Blackwater." Tyrion said, cheerfully. If he was aware of the situation, his voice didn't betray it. "What are you- What are you doing up North?"

Bronn raised the crossbow, the waiting bolt glinting viciously in the dim room.

"What are you doing with that?" Jaime asked.

"Oh, this?" Bronn asked. "This is for you. For both of you."

He sat down across from Tyrion and propped up his muddy boots.

"You're supposed to be south." Tyrion told him.

"You boys are a pair of gold-plated cunts. Do you know that?" Bronn asked.

"That's a bit rude." Tyrion said.

"Year after year, I've shoveled Lannister shit, and what do I have to show?"

"You're a knight, thanks to me." Tyrion reminded him.

"Thanks to me." Bronn corrected. "And that title's worth as much as a blond hair from your brother's ballsack."

"Power resides where men believe…"

"Shut your mouth." Bronn snapped.

"I'm just trying…"

"I've never hit a dwarf before, but say another word and I will belt you." Bronn warned.

"See, I don't believe you'd do that, after all- " Tyrion's response was interrupted by a swift fist to the nose.

Jaime charged Bronn but the crossbow was trained on his heart before he got within arms reach. And without Widow's Wail at his hip, he was defenseless.

"You couldn't do it on your best day, you one-handed fuck." Bronn told him. "And your best days are long gone."

Long gone… _If you could wield a sword right handed… Do you think you'd still have it? _Jaime took a step back and raised his hands in surrender.

Tyrion groaned loudly. "You broke my nose!"

"I did not break your nose." Bronn said.

"How do you know?" Tyrion asked reproachfully, clutching his nose.

"Because I've been breaking noses since I was your size, and I know what it sounds like. Now listen." Bronn returned to his seat. "Your sister offered me Riverrun. Nice big castle, good lands, plenty of peasants who do what they're told."

"And you trust Cersei?" Jaime asked.

"I knew your sister was dead the second I saw those dragons." Bronn replied. "Now, your army may get torn to shit by those dead things, but I'd still bet on your Dragon Queen to win. And it just so happens I'm a betting man. If Cersei's dead, she can't pay up." He grabbed a bottle of wine from the table and pulled the stop out with his teeth before taking a long swig. "Mmm, that's good." He pushed the bottle in Tyrion's direction. "Of course, the odds change if the Dragon Queen's Hand turns up dead. Maybe a few of her top generals get picked off one by one. All of a sudden…"

"May I speak?" Tyrion interrupted.

"Why not? Only death will shut you up." Bronn shrugged.

"We made a deal long ago." Tyrion said. "Do you remember?"

"If anyone offered me money to kill you, you'd pay me double." Bronn said without hesitation. "What's double Riverrun?"

"Highgarden." Tyrion countered. "You could be Lord of the Reach."

"Highgarden?" Jaime asked. "Are you mad?"

"It's better than being dead." Tyrion pointed out.

"He's not going to kill us." Jaime said. "He wouldn't be talking to us if…"

The bolt whisked past Jaime's head and sank into the wall behind him and he decided it was best to stop talking.

"The way I see it, I only need one of the Lannister brothers alive." Bronn said, his voice low and dangerous as he loaded another bolt.

"Highgarden will never belong to a cutthroat." Jaime hissed.

"No? Who were your ancestors, the ones who made your family rich? Fancy lads in silk? They were fucking cutthroats." Bronn said. "That's how all the great houses started, isn't it? With a hard bastard who was good at killing people. Kill a few hundred people, they make you a lord. Kill a few thousand, they make you king. And then all your cocksucking grandsons can ruin the family with their cocksucking ways."

"Highgarden." Bronn demanded. "Give me your word."

"You have my word." Tyrion promised. "None of this means a thing if we all die tonight. We could use an man like you against the dead."

"My fighting days are done." Bronn said, but there was a hungry glint in his eyes.

"One day people will tell stories and sing songs of those who fought the dead." Tyrion said. "You're telling me you don't want to be one of those heroes?"

"I'm a cutthroat." Bronn said.

"Yes, so you'll need quite the good story to start that great house of yours." Tyrion said.

Bronn stared him down for a long minute before his face split into a wide grin. "You may be a cunt, but you're good." Bronn said. "Always know how to be just clever enough to keep yourself useful."

"So you'll fight?"

"I'll fight. And I'll find you when the war is done." Bronn assured him.

"Then you'd better not die." Tyrion warned.

* * *

**Please review!**


	25. Chapter 25: Tormund

Tormund clutched his horn of ale to his chest as thought the hewn horn could soothe his aching heart. Despite the offer of company from a pretty little wench, Tormund had been too distraught to take her back to his bed. Anyway, she'd been so small and fragile looking, he'd been afraid a good romp would break her in two. She wasn't like the big woman. Now that had been a woman born to bear the children of Tormund Giantsbane. She was big and strong, and those eyes… Jon had reminded him countless times that the wildling custom of stealing women was not recognized in the South, so Tormund had done his best to woo her the Southern way.

She'd been so immune to his charms that he wondered if his intentions were not clear enough. So when she'd left the circle after her knighting - and what a fine sight that had been - he'd decided to do this right once and for all. He would wind her over the wildling way.

But then that King Killer had stopped him.

He'd wandered aimlessly for a time, imagining that fucker with his woman. The taller Lannister was a pansy if ever Tormund had seen one. He wasn't fit to ride a great beast of a woman such as Ser Brienne.

Yet, he was the one in Brienne's chambers and Tormund the one left out in the cold.

His wanderings lead him to the one-eyed knight and the big fellow, Clegane, the ugly fucker who had been kissed by fire a bit too passionately. The two had a flask they were passing between them to ward off the chill.

Tormund sank down beside Clegane and draped his arm across the big man's shoulders.

"I've lost her." He lamented.

"Don't touch me." Clegane growled.

Tormund took a long draw from his horn. "After all we've been through. Wars and walls and the dead, I find a woman fit to be the mother of my children. Big and strong and beautiful. I find her. And I court her for months. And after all that, some fucker comes north and takes her from me." He snaps his fingers. "Just takes her, like that."

Tormund massaged his chest mournfully. "I mean it, Clegane. My heart is broken."

"Do I look like I give a fuck?" Clegane asked, his face making it quite clear which was the correct answer.

Finding no sympathy, Tormund turned his attention to the one-eyed knight.

"What do I do?" Tormund asked. "I've never felt like this before."

The knight considered him for a moment. "What exactly has happened?"

"The King Killer has stolen my woman."

Clegane let out a roar of laughter. "You mean to tell me that Lannister cunt is rutting around with Fucking Brienne of Tarth?" He thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. "Suppose theres a hole for every peg. Just didn't suppose Jaime Lannister would be looking to stick his peg into that particular hole."

Tormund grabbed Clegane's collar. "Don't talk about my woman like that."

"From the sound of it, she'd not your woman." Clegane said. "Though I'm surprised she'd pick him of all people. She's not exactly easy on the eyes, but she's got all the right parts in all the right places, from what I can tell. Seems she could have done better than a sister-fucking cunt."

"The Lord of Light's will can be seen in even the most unexpected of…" The one-eyed knight started.

"I warned you once already." Clegane grumbled. "Any more talk of that lord of yours and I'm chucking you over the wall. So unless his purpose for you after all your resurrections is a pointless death, I'd shut it."

The knight chuckled and reached over for the flask, which Clegane surrendered grudgingly.

Tormund sighed heavily. His woman… his big woman, was lost to him. What a beautiful horde of ginger warriors they could have had together. If only she'd realized what he'd meant with all his subtle southern wooing.

* * *

When both horn and flask were empty, Tormund left Clegane and the knight to their silence on the wall. He thought the two of them would make good crows, if there was still a wall to defend. Neither seemed overly concerned by the love of a good woman. Both were satisfied to pass what might have been their final night with drinking and watching the world pass them by from atop a wall.

Ideal crows.

Tormund was no such man. A wildling was not suited for the life of a crow. Their blood flowed to hot, a requirement to survive such extreme cold. He'd imagined spending this night in the bed of his beautiful woman. Had that only been the case, he would have been content to go into the long night and face his probable death with that memory to keep him warm.

Instead, he'd passed it drinking with a couple of lonely old fucks, too set in their ways to know just how lonely they were.

Tormund wander the halls in search of more ale, but it seemed everyone else had the same idea and he could find none.

When he stepped out on to the decking with a view of the courtyard, intending to grab a few more dragon glass blades for himself before the were all gone, he saw Jon leaning on the railing, staring out pensively.

Despite the early hour, the yard was a bustle of activity as women and children were gathering to leave and those to young or ill to walk, were loaded onto the already heavy laden carts.

Tormund was about to speak when he noticed a faint smile on the pretty boy's lips. The kind of smile that snuck out when a person was happy. Genuinely happy. He'd know the former crow a good long while now and he knew him to be a somber sort. Rarely smiling and never truly happy. Tormund decided this could mean only one thing. Unlike himself, Snow's heart had not been broken the night before.

"Looks like she rode you as hard as she rides that dragon of hers." Tormund said, thumping his friend on the chest.

Jon winced at the thump, clearly those knife wounds of his still caused him some pains. Good. Pain was good for reminding a man that he was alive. Reminding him to keep fighting.

"That's no way to talk about our queen." Jon said.

"Your queen." Tormund reminded him. The Wildlings had never bowed to a Southern ruler and they weren't about to start just because a pretty woman came soaring in with dragons and a high opinion of her birthright because she'd been born with a last name that didn't mean shit North of the wall.

Jon looked out at the yard again, his expression far away as he ran his thumb over the dire wolf engraved into the leather straps of his cloak. No, Tormund realized, his heard doesn't belong some Southern queenling. The North was in his blood and bones. The North was in his heart as well.

"Who is she?" Tormund asked. "This northern woman who has you smiling like an idiot."

Jon looked at Tormund, surprised by the question, but after a moment he chuckled. "How'd you know?"

"Saw you with Ygritte." Tormund explained. "You need a woman with ice in her veins. You've got enough fire in you as it is."

Jon studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"Want to tell me about her?" Tormund pressed.

"I don't think I do." Jon said, with a soft smile.

Tormund chuckle, so the boy wanted to keep this love to himself. He could respect that… mostly.

"Give me something." Tormund pushed.

Jon shook his head as he chuckled and then his expression waxed nostalgic. "She has red hair."

"Kissed by fire!" Tormund bellowed, happily. "Ygritte would approve. She'd be glad to know you still know real beauty when you see it."

Jon shot him an amused look. "I don't think we're remembering the same woman." He paused and then smiled sadly. "She'd cut my dick off for looking twice at someone else.

Tormund sighed, fondly remembering the fiery woman who'd fallen at Castle Black. At least she'd been burned. Her bones were at peace now. She wouldn't be back to haunt anything but memories.

"True enough." He agreed and then clapped Jon on the shoulder. "I'm glad for you, little crow. If anyone deserves a speck of happiness in this shit show, it's you. Even if you're prettier than my daughters."

Jon chuckled at the old joke, though if Tormund was honest, it wasn't much of a joke. The boy really was prettier than most maids.

"What of you and the Lady Brienne." Jon asked.

"Ser Brienne." Tormund corrected, feeling a twinge of pride on behalf of his lady, even now that she belonged to another.

"Ser?" Jon cocked his head, confused.

"Aye, the golden handed pecker knighted her last night." Tormund said.

"That was… untraditional." Jon frowned a little, but didn't seem overly bothered by the revelation.

"So was letting Wildlings south of the wall." Tormund pointed out. "So I say fuck tradition."

Jon's hand went back to the dire wolf strapped across his heart and that content look returned to his handsome face. "Fuck tradition."

* * *

Tormund saw his golden haired giantess striding across the yard and rushed to intercept her.

"Ser Brienne." He called.

She slowed and turned to face him, a grimace on that fine, broad face of hers. She inclined her head in greeting. "Tormund Giantsbane."

Such formality between them. Tormund felt a sting of sorrow for her. He hated to see her so conflicted.

"I just wanted to let you know… I've forgiven you." He assured her, hoping this would ease her troubled conscience. "Your heart lead you astray, but I understand. And I hope the King Killer can make you has happy as I would have."

Her cheeks turned crimson, "Thank you."

He drew closer to her so he could whisper his next words as a tender caress. "Just know, if he breaks your heart. I'll cut off his pecker and give it to you as a necklace."

"I…" Brienne took a step back, her eyes wide at the gravity of his gesture. "That's not necessary."

Tormund shook his head. "I could not justify doing anything less."

"I see." She pursed her lips. Perhaps to hold back tear. Such a good woman.

"For a love like ours…" Tormund said, reaching out and squeezing her arm. "Deserves true displays of devotion."

"That is kind of you to say." Brienne said, looking around and licking her lips. Clearly she wanted to kiss him, but it was far too public for a display like that, especially considering that another man had spent the night in her bed.

"But I want you to be happy." He assured her. "So if that golden fucker makes you happy, though he's killed no giants, then I wish you well."

This powerful profession left Brienne speechless.

"But know," He patted his chest over his heart. "My heart is yours, Lady Knight. And you can always change your mind and come back to me. The love we share… will never die."

"I… must be going." Brienne said, turning and leaving before her emotions could overwhelm her.

* * *

**I couldn't help myself. I felt we were in desperate need of some Tormund POV before the long night. I hope you found this chapter as amusing to read as I found it to write! Also, we are 6 chapters from the end of Episode 2. A word of warning for Episode 3, the chapters will generally be on the shorter side as I will need to bounce between characters more rapidly. An unfortunate byproduct of the different tempo when writing something heavy in action. I know there is generally a preference for longer chapters, so I just wanted to warn everyone that it will not be the case for Episode 3. Not super short, mind you, but probably falling in closer to 1K for the most part. Okay, that's all. Random ramblings complete.**

**Please review!**


	26. Chapter 26: Brienne

Brienne was still shaking her head in bewilderment when she found the Lady Sansa. The redheaded beauty was dressed in a simple gray gown and heavy fur cloak, instead of the regal black she'd adopted since reclaiming her ancestral home. Her hair was in a low, simple braid and it made her look younger, more like the battered and abused girl she'd rescued from Ramsay's hounds than the grand lady of a high house.

"Milady." Brienne said in greeting.

Sansa looked up and smiled softly at the sight of her protector.

Brienne felt a twinge of guilt for not riding East with her Lady to protect her from any threats that might arise on the road, but Sansa herself had requested that Brienne stay behind and assist in the battle. She'd said that Jon needed as many able bodied fighters as he could get. Moreover he needed those he could trust to lead with good sense. The way the girl had charged her to do all she could to protect her bastard brother, Brienne almost imagine that Sansa cared more for his survival than her own. If he was still the King in the North, Brienne could see way, but he was simply the bastard son of a High Lord. A good man and a good fighter, but he was not one of the three remaining true born Stark children and Brienne doubted the North would ever look at him as a king again after he surrendered his title to Daenerys.

"Thank you for seeing me off." Sansa said. She placed a hand on Brienne's arm.

Brienne appreciated the gesture and appreciated that she didn't do more. While Sansa was one of a handful of people she considered among her intimates, she had never been overly fond of physical contact. An embrace from a woman only served to remind her how outlandishly large she was. An embrace from a man had only ever felt like a threat to her virtue. Except with Renley who had embraced her but desired nothing from her.

And Jaime.

From the moment they'd met, she'd been aware of his raw power. Even chained and covered in filth in the makeshift jail in Robb Stark's war camp, she'd been able to see the potential of the warrior before her.

When Catelyn Stark charged her to take him South and exchange him for Sansa and Arya, Brienne never thought much of him as a man, only as a warrior. Even with his crude comments about her wanting some man to overpower her and have his way with her and that he was strong enough to be that man, she felt no threat to her virtue, simply because he, like Renley, had no interest in taking anything from her.

The first time she truly appreciated him as both a warrior and a man was when he'd broken free of her. They'd fought, their swords kissing, and she could see that the stories were true. He was a swordsman unparalleled by any that was living. Had his hands not been bound and his body weakened by captivity, he would have had her. She recognized the truth in his words that he was one man strong enough to take her. And though she'd proclaimed her disinterest, this stirred something inside her that had never stirred before, not even for Renley.

Even when she saw the lion maimed and burning with fever, she still felt in her bones that he had a strength in him, an indomitable spirit. She saw a fire burning in him, that was part of what angered her so when he professed an intention to die after the loss of his hand. He said that he was that hand. And though at the time she still didn't like the man, she didn't believe him. He was more than the hand that wielded the sword that killed the mad king. He was more than the infamous Kingslayer. What that more was, she couldn't say, but she knew in her soul that it was within him.

She'd found the first traces of the man beneath the bravado in the bath at Harrenhall. At first, she'd been so preoccupied by their mutual nakedness to see what was happening. As he began his confession, she had seen him naked in a far different way. His soul was bare before her and beneath the layers of ego and shame, she found Jaime. Before, she'd been desperate to keep him alive for Lady Catelyn, but as he collapse in her arms, his naked body pressing against hers and burning hot even in the bath waters, she said a silent prayer. A prayer for Jaime Lannister, the man who'd shattered before her eyes and in her arms. She prayed that Ser Jaime might rise from the ashes of the Kingslayer, of his lost right hand, and become the man he might have been… if only honor and loyalty hadn't been such complicated affairs.

"Lady Brienne?" Sansa said, pulling Brienne from her thoughts.

"It's Ser, milady." Brienne corrected respectfully.

Sansa tilted her head in confusion. "Ser?"

"Ser Jaime knighted me… last night."

Surprise brightened Sansa's face, but she recovered herself and nodded. "There's none more deserving. Perhaps with a knight like yourself, knights might once more become worthy of the songs minstrels strum for them."

"Thank you, milady." Brienne said, her face growing warm at the praise.

"So that's what it is." Sansa said.

"What what is, milady?"

"I knew there was something different about you." Sansa said. "You're practically glowing. I could almost imagine you were in love."

Brienne's cheeks flamed at the comment, and she saw a small, knowing glint in Sansa's eyes.

"May the seven watch over you and guard you on your journey." Brienne said to the lady she'd sworn to protect and grown to admire.

"And may the old gods strengthen you and see you through this battle." Sansa whispered in return.

* * *

Brienne patrolled along the defenses, the unsullied had dug three rows of trenches in defense of the outer wall, each primed to be set on fire when the time came. Beyond the trenches, like spokes on a wheel, stretched out lines of pyres, to offer visibility as the dead approached. The outermost trench was in place to hold the dead at bay while the catapults thinned their ranks. The catapults were, of course, positioned behind the inner most trench, which they would not light unless they were driven back into the castle. The infantry would be stationed in the center ring where they strategically placed openings. The dead would doubtless break through the first trench eventually, whether when they devised a way through it or when the trench burned out. When that took place, they would light the second trench which had been designed with opening to allow the dead to pass, but force them into a bottleneck as they did so.

The battle plan was not without it's short comings, but there was no perfect plan to fight what was coming for them. All they could hope was to slow them and thin their numbers while Jon and Daenerys sought to destroy the Night King.

"Milady?"

Brienne looked around and found Podrick standing behind her.

"Pod." She gave him a thin smile.

"I never got the chance to congratulate you properly last night, mi..Ser…" He stammered, unsure how to navigate her new title.

She chuckled slightly at his struggle. "You congratulated me plenty, Pod."

He shook his head. "But I didn't… I never got to tell you… to tell you how proud I am of you."

Brienne studied Pod for a long moment before nodding. "Thank you, Podrick."

"I just… I wanted you to know how much I admire you… Before the dead…" Pod stammered.

Brienne reached out and gripped his shoulder. "I know, Pod. And I return the sentiment in full."

Pod gave her that charming half smile of his. She'd thought him a bit of a simpleton when Jaime had first turned him to her charge. She had not expected him to grow on her as he had. In their time together, he'd become a friend, confidant, and protege.

"Pod, will you do something for me?" She asked.

Pod nodded, not even bothering to place any qualifications on his assent. Her heart clenched at his guileless trust in her. He trusted her to never misuse him. He was right, but it still moved her deeply to have him put such utter faith in her.

"Ser?" He asked when she didn't continue.

"Tonight… be at the weirwood tree." She said.

"But you'll be…"

She raised a hand to stop him. "I'd have you fight for the Starks. I'd have you fight with Ser Jaime."

Pod swallowed hard and then nodded. "If you think it's best."

"I'd be there myself if I didn't have to command here." She said. And it was true. Though they would likely face the Night King in the godswood, she wouldn't hesitate to place herself in his direct path. She would give anything to protect the Stark children… and Jaime. "There's no one, I would be more honored to have fight on my behalf for those duty calls me to protect."

Pod beamed at the praise. "I won't fail you, milady."

She smiled, not minding the slip back into old habits.

"I have no doubt you will do me great credit, Podrick. You've become a fine soldier and an even better man."

* * *

After her patrol of the trenches, Brienne's lack of sleep had begun to get to her. She decided she would try to get an hour or two of rest while the sun was still high in the sky. Dothraki scouts had ridden out to survey the progress of the Dead army and had confirmed Tormund's assessment that the dead would be at Winterfell by nightfall, if not sooner. Even still, that left Brienne with enough time to rest up. She was used to roughing it through the wilderness and could fight well on minimal sleep, but that didn't mean she wouldn't fight better with a bit more.

On her way back to the castle, she decided to inspect the wall.

The murder holes where being stocked with dragon glass arrows and the supplies to build the fires that would heat the pitch to boiling were being piled at appropriate intervals. Good, those fires would serve a dual purpose of both boiling the pitch and keeping the soldiers warm. They could also use the flames to light regular arrows if they ran out of the ones with dragon glass arrowheads.

"Ser Brienne."

She looked over and saw a man she knew only by reputation.

"Ser Beric." She looked over the rough looking man. She'd heard he'd once been a rather pretty lad, but war, years, and countless deaths had taken their toll. "It seems news of my knighthood has traveled swiftly."

Beric chuckled. "Tormund talks a great deal."

Brienne thought of the strange wildling man and while she did not return his obvious interest, she did appreciate his uncommon zeal for life. Despite herself, the thought of him made her smile.

"I believe I owe him a debt. I do not know that the honor would have been bestowed on me if he had not first suggested it."

"I'd be careful admitting such a thing to him." Beric warned. "He's rather… enthusiastic in his regard."

Brienne nodded. She gripped the hilt of Oathkeeper, her mind wandering back to Jaime.

"That's a fine sword." Beric noted.

Brienne glanced down and then nodded at Beric's own sword. "Perhaps, but it doesn't flame."

Beric chuckled, patting his own sword. "A parlor trick, but it does make for a fearsome sight."

"So no great aspirations to call yourself Azor Ahi, the prince that was promise?" Brienne asked. So many had lusted over that very title. Stannis, a supposedly honorable man, had been tempted into blood magic and other dark deeds under the misconception that he was the hero of legend. A lot of rubbish, in Brienne's opinion. She didn't put much stock in legend and prophesy. It's was just another way in which men excused their misdeeds.

"I believe you mean Azor Ahi or the prince that was promised." Beric corrected. "My friend… Thoros. He was a red priest. He was the one who brought me back all those times. He always told me he didn't think those prophesies were referring to the same man. He always said…" Sadness crossed his face. "He said it would take two men. One to save the world. Another to fix it. A hero to end the long night and a leader to bring us into the dawn of a brighter day."

"That's assuming the that it's not all a bunch of horse shit." Brienne said.

Beric chuckled. "I see why Tormund is taken with you. You're not afraid to speak your mind. It is a refreshing trait."

Brienne shrugged. "Maybe you're right and some mythical hero will rise wielding a flaming sword and save us all, but I'm not holding my breath for it. I'll face this like I have everything else, by fighting my own damn battle."

Beric appraised her thoughtfully. "You have a fearsome heart, my Lady Ser. It will be an honor to fight beside you."

Brienne inclined her head in thanks before striding away. If Beric's magical Azor Ahi was going to make an appearance, the very least he could do was make it sooner rather than later. But faith was a double-edged sword, just as likely to cut you as it was to serve you.

* * *

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	27. Chapter 27: Daenerys

Another night spent cold and alone in a unfamiliar bed had been enough to distract Daenerys from the good sense imparted on her by both Tyrion and Jorah. Fresh waves of betrayal and indignation had battered her through the night, making sleep a distant fantasy. The only satisfaction that came with the end of a long and restless night was the knowledge that the women and children were leaving and with them the she-wolf Sansa Stark. It would not return Jon's affections to their proper recipient, but it would at least spare her from having to see that wretched girl's annoyingly beautiful face.

When the sun had lifted high enough to assure her that morning had dawned, Daenerys had dressed in her white fur coat and had taken to the walls of Winterfell. She did not bother to survey the preparations outside the castle walls. She knew little of siege tactics and would leave them to those better suited. It was not for a queen to devise battle plans. That was the purpose of generals. In this case, she trusted Jorah and Gray Worm to devise a fitting plan. Her input on the tactics would be neither required or beneficial.

Instead, she looked down on the courtyard. The wagons laden with food and supplies had already been moved outside the castle wall, but a few wagons remained, those that would carry the individual's unable to carry themselves.

Foolish, Daenerys thought. Survival depended on them reaching the Ironborn's waiting ships as swiftly as possible. Those not well enough to travel would only hamper the effort. But as she had already realized, the Stark girl was soft. Her heart bled for her people and would no doubt refuse to allow her to leave any behind. That compassion might very well be the death of her. And if the Stark girl died on her journey west... so be it.

Daenerys had learned to accept long ago that the weak were a liability. It was a hard lesson, but the Dothraki had been good teachers. Men she'd believed to be loyal to death had abandoned her and Drogo the moment he fell too ill to ride.

It was a cruel truth, but Daenerys had not conquered cities and crossed seas to be kind. She had come to be victorious. Like her ancestors before her, she would win. Even if it required that cities burn and streets run red with blood. Those results might not be her first choice, but they were choices she would and could make, if necessary. That was why she was a queen and Sansa merely a lady. Because unlike Sansa Stark, she was not soft.

Daenerys's entire life she had been treated like the most beautiful woman who ever lived. That is, until she came North.

Men had fought and died to please her. Some had promised her riches, pledged armies and ships to her cause, and for what? In the, often futile, hope that she would take them to her bed.

She had bought and paid for the Seven Kingdoms with her body and her dignity. She would not have some girl sweep in and take even a small part of it from her.

Sansa may have been born in the North, but the North was not hers to keep.

When the war with the dead was through, Jon's whore would bend the knee like the rest of them. Or she would burn.

In the meantime, her absence would help. It would be easier to forget the sting of wounded pride without glints of auburn hair catching her eye at every turn.

"My queen."

Daenerys looked and found Missandei standing at her side, head bowed in respectful submission.

"My friend." Daenerys said in greeting, her tight expression softening to a smile. Until she saw the look on Missandei's face. "What has happened?"

* * *

Daenerys stopped several feet behind Sansa who was helping an elderly woman onto one of the wagons. The redheaded beauty was dressed in a humble gray dress, but it did not hide her natural beauty or the fact that there was something inherently regal about her.

They were not so terribly different, Daenerys realized. Both beautiful women condemned to a world where beauty was a bargaining chip. They both had been bought and sold. They both had been misused by mean little men who sought to feel powerful by causing pain to others.

Perhaps, under different circumstances, they might have been friends. No... Daenerys realized, there could never have been a peace between them. Not even if Jon had been removed from the equation. Like her aunt Lyanna before her, Sansa was born to be a problem for any woman who sought to rule. She wanted the North and there would always be men eager to fight and die to get the Northern beauty what she wanted. She inspired a rather inconvenient level of love and loyalty, and that meant she would always be in Daenerys's way.

"Missandei told me of your sister's actions." Daenerys said to get Sansa's attention.

"Your Grace." Sansa said with hardly a glance in her direction as she helped another of the elderly onto the wagon.

"She also told me of your actions." Daenerys pressed on, boiling at Sansa's disregard.

When she did not say any more, Sansa turned to face her.

"I apologize for my sister's overzealous behavior." Sansa said. "Her actions were wrong, but her intentions were only to protect her family. To protect Jon."

_Jon_. It did always seem to come back to Jon. Daenerys wished she could wonder why that was, but she didn't have to. He had, after all, captivated her the moment he appeared in her throne room at Dragonstone. She would never understand the power the Stark bastard wielded. He inspired love and loyalty from women and men alike.

"You didn't have to spare Missandei." Daenerys said. "It was a kindness and I am grateful."

Sansa studied her for a long moment. "She did nothing wrong. It has not been my practice to punish the innocent."

Daenerys nodded, because that was a stance she could understand. While she often couldn't afford to preserve the innocent, she had and would never go out of her way to harm them. She wasn't like the mean little men who had hurt her and Sansa because they had the power to do so and enjoyed that power.

"I owe you a debt." Daenerys admitted, begrudgingly. "And I won't forget it."

Sansa looked surprised but nodded at this promise. "I hope to have the opportunity to hold you to that."

Daenerys offered a curt nod and then spun on her heel to leave. She was grateful that the Stark girl had spared Missandei's life when it would have better served her to allow her sister to slit her throat, but that didn't mean she liked her any better. That didn't mean she forgave her for being the one who commanded Jon Snow's heart. She would repay her debt, as the Dothraki would says "it is known". But once that debt was discharged, all bets were off.

* * *

Dany was heading to her dragons. She wanted to get away and clear her mind for a bit and she thought a ride on Drogon would offer her troubled heart some solace. She spotted Varys in conversation with Gray Worm. This stopped her in her tracks, while she had not explicitly told the spymaster to leave with the woman and children, she assumed he would and wanted as much. He was of no use to her here. Like Tyrion, he was a man of words and thoughts, not actions. He would not turn the tides of this war and his presence would likely only lead to his demise.

"What are you doing here?" She demanded.

Varys turned to her and gave her a respectful bow. "Your Grace."

"Why aren't you with the caravan?" She said, having no patience for pleasantries.

"Because I am not leaving." Varys said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yes you are." Daenerys said. "I don't need you here. I need you alive."

"With all do respect," Varys said in a way that didn't sound particularly respectful. "You're wrong."

"What?" Daenerys snapped. She was accustomed to the spymaster who offered smiles and whispers, not resistance.

"Here is precisely where you need me." Varys said. "I've just been discussing the battle plan with Gray Worm and how best we can adapt to changing tactics, should one plan fail."

Gray Worm inclined his head. "He speaks truth. Battles are won and lost based on the wisdom of their leaders and the ability to communication order in the heat of battle. It is one of the unsullied's strengths. We follow a centralized command without question. Lord Varys can give that command."

Daenerys looked between the two men, feeling put in her place by two men with not a dick between them. Her face felt hot, but she tried to push down her annoyance.

"Lord Varys is no general."

"No," Varys agreed. "But I am a well-seasoned tactician."

"Where is this coming from?" Daenerys demanded. "Why didn't you bring this up during the war council…" Then it dawned on her. "Because this wasn't your idea. _Sansa_. She put you up to this, didn't she?"

Varys gathered himself up to his full height. "She did. And I agreed because she is right."

The fire erupted inside of Daenerys and she thought this might have been the feeling her brother was referring to when he warned her not to wake the dragon. For she was wrathful and she would not forget this slight.

"Leave with the women and children." She ordered.

"I will not." Varys said.

"Your queen commands it." She hissed.

"So you would sacrifice a plan, a good plan, simply because it was Lady Sansa who thought of it?" Varys asked his expression offering condemnation for her petty actions.

"You will not speak to me with such disrespect." She said. "I am you queen."

Varys met her raging gaze for a long moment, but did not wilt before her fury.

"I am staying, your Grace." He said at long last. "Should we survive the battle to come, you are welcome to deal with me as you see fit. But not until then."

"You swore to serve me." She said. "This is treason."

Varys smiled sadly, "I have, and will always, serve the realm. If that is treason, so be it."

"So be it." She said in reply. Daenerys fixed him with a look of utter loathing before turning away and finding herself face to face with Tyrion. Their eyes locked and she saw something break in his expression.

_He has lost faith in me,_ she realized. The realization was enough to unbalance her. For a moment, she wanted to stop and make amends. She wanted to assure her Hand that she was still the queen he believed in.

But Lady Olena's words revisited her. The Lords of Westeros were sheep. She was not a sheep. She was a dragon. And dragons need not make themselves small so as not to frighten the sheep.

* * *

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	28. Chapter 28: Tyrion

As Daenerys stormed away, Tyrion looked up and met Varys's gaze. There was something of an _I told you so_ in the eunuch's expression that Tyrion didn't particularly appreciate but couldn't exactly disagree with either. The queen... well, Tyrion had always recognized the fire in her nature, but he'd foolishly

"Walk with me." Tyrion said to the eunuch before turning away, not even acknowledging the to Unsullied commander.

The two old friends walked in silence toward the courtyard of Winterfell in silence for several minutes. Tyrion knew the caravan was about ready to depart and certainly would not wait for one tardy dwarf. While he didn't particularly wish to leave, he didn't feel the need to actively put himself at odds with his queen… yet.

"I do believe she'll kill the Stark girl before this war has ended." Varys said to break the silence.

A shiver ran down Tyrion spine at the spymaster's prediction. He didn't want to believe it, but he was growing more and more certain that he had underestimated Daenerys, and not in a good way.

"She won't." He said, more too convince himself than Varys. Besides, even if she tried, he believed, or at least, hoped that Sansa was too clever to end up executed as a traitor like so many of her family before her.

"She's the true queen with an army and two dragons." Varys said. "Who would dare to stop her?"

Tyrion licked his lips uneasily. "What if there was someone better?"

Varys looked over at him suspiciously, but did not stop walking. That would draw too much attention. "What's in your mind, old friend?"

Tyrion caught a glimpse of Sansa's auburn hair as she hurried to ready the wagons. Their queen was off blowing off steam from an overly hot temper, while the Lady of Winterfell was busy serving her people, getting her hands dirty and doing her part. One was playing the part of a leader, the other living it.

He swallowed hard before uttering his next word, because it was not the kind that could be taken back. "Treason."

He and Varys slipped into a dark corner where they could see the courtyard without being seen.

"Daenerys does not have the strongest claim to the Iron Throne." Tyrion whispered so soft that if Varys did not have the astute hearing of a spymaster, he might have missed it. Varys did not speak, but Tyrion could tell that he was listening to every word. "Rhaegar wed Lyanna Stark in a secret ceremony. He got her with child before dying at the Trident. A child Eddard Stark sheltered and hid in plain sight."

Comprehension sparked in the eunuch's intelligent eyes.

"Jon Snow is no bastard." Varys whispered.

Tyrion shook his head. "He is the true born son of the crowned prince."

"He would be an honorable king." Varys said, warily.

"And he loves a just woman." Tyrion said, his gaze following Sansa.

Varys raised an eyebrow. "Does he?"

"What if…" Tyrion whispered, letting the idea hang in the air, Davos's words about having the right rulers on the Iron throne for once in the history of the Seven Kingdoms no doubt ringing in Varys' mind as well. Davos had the right idea, and half the right rulers.

"If either of us survive the dead." Varys said. "We owe it to the realm. To break the wheel. Daenerys… she'd just more of the the same, Tyrion."

Tyrion nodded, hating to admit it, because he had held such high hopes for the dragon queen. He had believed in her. _I used to believe you were the smartest man in the seven kingdoms_. He had thought the same and fallen into another of the many blunders common to clever men. With Cersei, he had underestimated his enemy. With Daenerys, he overestimated a friend.

She was not her father. She was better than the mad king, but that was where his misstep occurred. There was a difference between better and good. He saw that now. Daenerys was great, but she had never been good. There was too much rage and entitlement in her to ever be good.

* * *

Tyrion slipped discretely from his dark corner, leaving Varys to do the same when an inconspicuous moment arose. He had not doubt the eunuch would do a fine job of vanishing. Moving unseen had always been one of his special skills.

Tyrion had not bothered to wish his old friend a fond farewell. Goodbye seemed far to permanent and he did not want to even consider that possibility. It was easier to ignore the impending onslaught if the words went unsaid. Just like his parting with Jaime after their encounter with Bronn. He had no desire to say goodbye to those he couldn't bare to lose. A goodbye felt like he was giving the gods permission to take them from him. And the gods could have Jaime over his dead body.

He made his way to a wagon, packed with the elderly, passing Missandei and Grey Worm as the two shared a parting kiss. Apparently there was someone for everyone, even bastards and broken things, but not, it seemed, for the Imp.

His thoughts drifted to Shae. He had not thought of her in a very long time, because all he felt when his thoughts drifted in her direction was pain. She'd claimed to love him and betrayed him. Though, he knew in his heart that he'd brought that betrayal on himself, which only made the ache in his chest worse. He'd pushed her to betrayal and then he'd killed her for it.

He'd been the bane of his father's existence and then he'd been the vehicle of his demise. Though, in all fairness, Jaime had been the true vehicle, slaying their father through his naivety. Tyrion never would have had the opportunity to slay the old lion, if not for Jaime. That murder did not bring with it any sting of pain. He supposed, perhaps, that was part of the reason that even now there was no one to love him. As much as he hated his father, he was more Tywin's son than Jaime could ever have hoped to be. He was clever and cruel and, generally, only a good man when it benefited him to be so. He wanted to believe he was was a better man than his father, but then again, better was not the same as good.

He clamored, inelegantly onto the waiting wagon.

"Lord Tyrion."

He looked back to see Jorah Mormont, the knight in rather well worn armor, standing at attention.

"Ser Jorah." Tyrion said, inclining his head in greeting, a sudden fear that Daenerys's loyal knight might have witnessed something of the exchange between Hand and Spider.

"I never particularly liked you." Jorah said, no edge in his words as though it was simply a fact to be known.

Tyrion chuckled, appreciative of the blunt admittance. "I couldn't tell."

Jorah cracked a thin smile. "Good fortune in your journey."

This struck a chord with Tyrion. They were not friends or even allies really, but they'd been by each other's side through impossible situations, and that left something of a bond between them. No, they were not friends, but sometimes that didn't matter.

Tyrion nodded in understanding. "And you."

* * *

**Happy Tuesday you beautiful people! Thank you for sticking with me through all these chapters. I've loved your reviews! I'm absolutely blown away that we've not passed 200 reviews. Thank you so much! You're 100% the reason I stay motivated!**

**Please review!**


	29. Chapter 29: Cersei

Cersei sat upon the Iron Throne in an empty throne room, save the silent figure of the Mountain, her mind racing. Her thoughts had kept her up most the night and even now in the early morning, no trace of sleep clouded her mind to offer her it's peaceful respite.

_"Mine?"_ Euron had asked when she'd first told him of her pregnancy. She'd said yes. They both knew she lied, but Euron didn't much seem to care about the truth. If her brother's bastard carried the Greyjoy name to the throne, that seemed reassurance enough to the worthless pirate. A bastard with his name and the promise of fucking the queen whenever he pleased was reason enough to remain loyal.

His very company made Cersei ill, but she pushed down her distaste. Better to let him share her bed and claim her child as his own than admit the truth. And the truth was that she was now utterly alone. Jaime was gone and she'd seen something break in his eyes when she'd threatened to kill him if he left her to fight with the Starks. She had, at long last, pushed him too far and severed the link they'd formed in the womb. She had always imagined that they would leave the world as they entered it, together. She'd never truly worried when he went away to war, because she did not believe he could die somewhere far removed from her side. Now she no longer held that certainty.

Even if he survived the dead, in a fit of temper she'd sent her brothers' beloved sell sword to end them both. She both longed for and dreaded the raven that would bring her word that both her brothers were moldering corpses.

Should the Dragon Queen's army survive the dead, their weakened remains would break themselves upon the Golden Company. Cersei would hold her throne and when her use for Euron Greyjoy expired, she would have the Mountain cut off his dick and feed it to him. Until then, she'd let him fuck her and pretend to like it. Until then, she'd pretend that her child could, for even a moment, be anything other than a Lannister.

Cersei caressed her growing belly, no longer concealable by corsets. She didn't mind, though. She'd never minded the way her body swelled and grew big with child. Jaime had never seemed to mind either, his attentions had grown more frequent and dangerously brazen in the later months of her confinement with each of their previous three children.

She'd been so sure that it would be the same this time.

She'd been so sure that this child would bind him to her more than ever before, since this time, for the first time, he could truly be a father to a child he'd fathered. She'd never imagined that he would turn his back on both her and the child. She'd never imagined that she would have the iron throne but that it would cost her all else.

_Everyone wants to know their future, until they know their future_

She shuddered as Maggy the Frog's words returned to haunt her as they so often did.

_Then comes another, younger, more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear._

Daenerys… the thought ripped from her like wildfire. The moment she'd seen the Targaryen beauty, she'd known with certainty that she was not the threat Maggy the Frog had promised. There was another, younger still… Another who was far more clever than a Targaryen wench who didn't have the good sense to hide her weakened forces. A fool who brought two of three dragons to a parle, revealing that one must have fallen, tipping her hand that dragons were fallible.

Everything else that wretched witch had predicted had come true, but she would not allow this last prophecy to come to pass. After all, she had promised only three children, but even now a four grew strong in her womb. Daenerys might survive the dead, but Cersei did not think it was likely that the Targaryen would take King's Landing.

No… Daenerys would not unseat her from the Iron Throne, though Cersei set a contingency in place for that possibility. For, losing the Iron Throne wouldn't strip her of that which she held most dear.

"I'll keep you safe, my darling." She whispered, as the child stirred inside her. Her time was only a few short months away now if Qyburn was to be trusted. He'd told her he was certain that she was further along than she'd initially suspected. She supposed it was lucky that Euron didn't seem to care about the child's actual parentage, because she would likely birth a full term child in half the customary time from when he'd first bedded her. He might be a thick-headed sea rat, but she supposed even he might have grown suspicious at that.

The child kicked where her hand rested and Cersei smiled. Strong, she thought. Perhaps a boy. Though, if she had her way, it would be a girl, a perfect little copy of Myrcella. Gods, how the world had been brighter for that precious girl's presence in it and so much darker and colder for her absence. Cersei wished for another perfect girl, with golden curls and Jaime's eyes._ Let it be a girl. Let her be better than me_. Cersei was not blind to her own grievous sins. She even regretted some of them. But had she the choice, she'd do them again, almost every last one.

"Your Grace." Qyburn's thin voice interrupted her reveries.

She looked down at the disgraced maester kneeling at her feet.

"What is it?" She snapped, seeing no need to mask her annoyance at his tiresome presence. There was no one in all of the Capitol that she did not find tiresome. They all bowed and groveled and offered her well wishes and respect, but not one of them truly cared for her. She'd played the game of thrones for so long, battling her way to the top, but no one had warned her that the top would leave her so utterly without a friend.

"A raven… from the North." Qyburn explained, bringing a tightly rolled paper to her.

Her heart pounded in her throat. This was it. This was word that Tyrion and Jaime were slain. She hadn't expected to feel great joy at the revelation, but she thought it would feel better than this, better than that knot swelling in her chest that threatened to rip her apart.

She snatched the paper for Qyburn.

She unrolled the message and skimmed it. Not from the sell sword. Her heart slowed in relief. No, rather this was a message of glad tidings. Confirmation of her contingency.

_The red wolf runs West to the Kraken._

"Glad tidings?" Qyburn asked.

"Summon Euron. I would speak to him in private." She said, waving the weasel of a man away. Perhaps she had another use for the dirty pirate after all.

* * *

**Due to a special request, because I'm a sucker for requests (part of the reason why the fate of so many characters remains in flux!), I have juggled some things around and added a Cersei POV to the lineup. I love writing Cersei, but as 90% of our cast is currently in Winterfell, it makes it a bit challenging to give her much of any action. However, luckily, Cersei is always scheming, so I wasn't entirely without options. As always, I love all your feedback and thoughts!**

**Please review!**


	30. Chapter 30: Jon

Jon made his way to the yard to see Sansa one last time, Ghost trotting at his heels. Images of the previous night danced in his head. The feel of her lips against his skin. The way when those icy eyes of hers locked on him, everything within him melted as though by fire. _Sansa... _His winter love. His bride.

Sansa Stark. He'd meant it when he's promised her that she would always be a Stark to him. Though he knew his true name to be Targaryen, it did not feel fitting for her to be adopted into the rank of dragons. She was a wolf, through and through. She'd been raised by lions and beaten down by flayed men, but arose stronger for it. She was truly the daughter of Stark and Tully. She was born soft, but that softens had been stripped away, revealing the iron underneath that not even she had known was there.

She amazed him daily. He still sometimes struggled to see the unbreakable woman and not the girl in need of a protector. At times, it was difficult to see her as not only an equal, but in many ways his superior, but the Battle of the Bastards had been illuminating. Seeing her face down Ramsay and hand the bastard the cruel justice he rightly deserved had opened Jon's eyes.

Once they reclaimed Winterfell and the lords and ladies gathered in the great hall, he had been prepared to bend the knee his rightful Queen in the North. Then the lords and ladies had raised him up instead. Even in that moment, he would have rejected the honor, if not for Sansa. He looked to her and saw the ghost of a smile on her lips and realized that he had not only her permission but his support.

He ached for her as he wove through the crowded yard, as though his very bones needed her close. He didn't want to be parted from her, but he'd lost one love in the midst of battle and he would not have history repeat itself.

The love he felt for her was different from any other form of love he'd ever known. It was unique from his feelings for Arya. Though he was raised to believe both Stark girls were his half sisters, the revelation of his true birthright erased the familial chains between himself and Sansa and the shame he'd felt whenever his desire for her had risen close to the surface. The revelation had no such effect on his bond with Arya, the small assassin was still a little sister to him as much as ever. But even before he knew the truth, Sansa had never been a sister to him in anything but word. He'd never seen her has a sister, only as his. His to protect and to love. The truth of his birth had merely freed him to love her as he had always wished to.

Their bond was also far different from what he'd shared with even Ygritte, who he had loved deeply. With Sansa… Well, it was different. Ygritte had been wild and passionate and had introduced him to feelings and experiences he had never known before. He loved her. But Sansa… love seemed to weak a word for the things he felt for her.

"Jon."

Jon stopped in his tracks at the sound of the familiar voice and turned to look upon Theon Greyjoy. He looked at the man, a man he had once hated with a passion and now regarded as something close to family. He inclined his head slowly in greeting.

"You're doing as Bran asked?" Jon asked.

"I am." Theon said. "It's the least I can do."

"It is." Jon agreed.

Theon looked down, his ever-present shame writing in the worry lines on his forehead.

"I will keep her safe." Theon promised. "If it costs my life, harm won't come to Sansa."

Jon felt a thrill of relief. He might not like Theon, but he believed the truth of his words. If there was anyone else in this world who would fight near as hard as he would to protect Sansa, it was Theon. While he did not want to trust her safety to anyone besides himself, he was grateful that Theon would be at her side.

"I know you'll do the right thing." Jon said.

Theon nodded. "You told me that I'm a Greyjoy and a Stark. You know… it's the same with you. Doesn't matter that you're a bastard. You're as much a Stark as the rest of them."

The words struck Jon like a slap. He'd been touched when Sansa said as much, but it was different hearing it from Theon. _You're a Targaryen and you're a Stark_. The realization hit him with an unexpected force. He'd spent his whole life feeling like almost a Stark. Now he could see that he always had been one. But not only a Stark. It was half of who he was and he was going to have to learn to reconcile those two halves of himself… if he survived the dead.

"I told you our father was a part of both of us." Jon said. "So is she. She's the best part of either of us."

Theon nodded and Jon could see the depth of love and admiration Theon bore for Sansa. It was more than familial and more than passion, the depths of which Jon thought might rival his own. It was a special kind of love that was deeper than any love for one's self.

"She's the best of any of us." Theon said.

Jon nodded. "You helped her escape Winterfell once before and kept her safe in impossible circumstances. Do the impossible, just once more."

Theon nodded and placed his fist over his heart. "Sansa will reach the Iron Islands. I swear it as a Greyjoy… and a Stark."

* * *

After parting company with Theon, Jon felt the pressing need to find Sansa, the last of the women and children and elderly were gathering and settling and the caravan would begin their exodus in minutes. Too soon and not soon enough.

He caught a glimpse of auburn hair and his heart sped in relief. Then Sam and Gilly stepped into his line of sight. His heart plummeted as he lost sight of Sansa, but he buoyed himself to bid his friend farewell.

He pulled Gilly into a tight hug and then pushed her away, having felt a suspicious roundness in her middle. He looked at her, his eyes wide with the unspoken question and she gave him a small smile. He looked to Sam who nodded happily.

"Yes, well, the nights have been getting longer," Sam said looking a bit too proud, "and there wasn't that much to do in Oldtown. There's only so many books a person can read, so we…"

"I'm sure he knows how it happens, Sam." Gilly chided, looking a little exasperated by the man she clearly loved. She looked at Jon, her expression soft with caring and admiration. "If it's a boy, we want to name him Jon."

"I hope it's a girl." Jon said, not wanting a name imparted on his behalf that wasn't even rightly his.

Jon embraced Sam, his throat tight with emotion.

"You're the best friend I ever had." Sam said.

"You too, Sam." Jon pulled away and looked in the direction of where Sansa still swept about, busy making sure every thing was as it should be. He felt a thrill of relief at the sight of her. "You'll remember what we talked about, should the worst happen?"

"She'll know everything."

Jon nodded appreciatively. "And you sent a raven to the Citadel? To make it official?"

Sam smiled slightly, "The raven is bound for the Citadel, it will be recorded. When the time is right, the marriage of Aegon Targaryen and Sansa Stark will be recognized."

Jon shot him a warning look. He didn't like words like that being spoken aloud so freely. "This is for her protection, Sam. Not for a claim."

Sam nodded, looking a bit sheepish. "Right. Of course. I just meant… Should the worst happen… Should she need the name… It will be known."

Jon let out a slow breath and scratched Ghost behind the ear before looking at Sam. "Be safe, my friend."

* * *

Jon watched Sansa for a second before bridging the last of the space between them. She looked so beautiful in the early morning light, but then again, she always looked beautiful. Tormund was right, kissed by fire was beautiful. In a sea of people, his gaze would always be drawn to her.

He took a few steps closer and she stopped, he wondered if she, like him, could feel when the other was near. It was like she was part of him. Like he was never more fully himself than when she was by his side.

He reached out and lightly touched her arm. She turned to face him, but didn't draw any closer.

"Jon." She said, and on her lips that was his true name. He couldn't imagine her ever calling him anything else. Aegon Targaryen be damned, he was Jon. He was her Jon.

"You'll be on your way then?" He asked.

She gave him a look that made it clear that if he budged an inch she would stay by his side. He longed to reach up and caress her cheek, but he knew better.

"I'll be on my way." She agreed, looking pained by the idea.

He smiled sadly at her, wishing they were back in the Lord's chambers, naked and in each other's arms.

"I'll find you when the fighting is over." He promised.

"You'd better." She met his gaze for a long moment. "Winterfell needs her king."

Jon shook his head. "I'm no king."

"You are to me."

His heart pounded at her words. She had no idea how true or dangerous they could be.

"And you are everything to me." He whispered so soft that he didn't think she would have understood if she hadn't been looking at him and seeing the emotion behind them.

She smile, the expression exquisite in the heartbreak it conveyed. He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, closing his eyes to savor the moment. He couldn't kiss her properly, not here where so many eyes could see and judge, but he had to touch her.

"Jon." She whispered in warning, gently pushing him back when he lingered too long.

"Take Ghost with you." Jon said.

Sansa looked at him in confusion, then down at the great big dire wolf.

"He belongs with you." She said.

"I'll be on a dragon and he'll be safer away from the castle." Jon said. "And you'll be safer with him by your side."

Sansa pressed her lips into a thin line and then nodded.

Jon knelt beside Ghost and wrapped his arms around the loyal wolf. He felt the wolf nuzzle him back affectionately.

"You keep her safe, you hear me?" He whispered to Ghost. "She's our lady."

The wolf whines softly and Jon thought of Ghost's litter mate, Lady, long dead. Not Sansa. She must not share her dire wolfs fate.

"The pack survives." He told Ghost. "So you wolves better stick together."

Jon looked up at Sansa who watched him, her eyes watering.

She was so often strong and stoic, seeing her emotions brimming to the surface caused him pain.

"Sansa…" He started.

"Don't you dare be a hero." She whispered. "You come back to me, you understand?"

Her eyes flashed with all the iron he remembered seeing in her mother's. Her mother had stood strong after the death of Ned. He had no doubt Sansa could do the same, but he hoped she wouldn't have to.

"I understand." He told her, hoping she knew how hard he'd fight just for one more glimpse of her perfect face.

She nodded stiffly and turned away, Ghost following at her heels.

* * *

**Hey guys! I'm going to dial back to once a week for a bit. My schedule has been pretty crazy and I just haven't been able to devote as much time to writing this story as I would like. If things calm down and I can get my groove back up to snuff, I'll try to get back to twice a week. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed the Jonsa farewell! Parting is such sweet sorrow!**

**Please review!**


	31. Chapter 31: Jaime

Jaime stood on the decking, overlooking the courtyard as the caravan rolled away. Tyrion looked surly in the back of a wagon as it bounced through the gate, but he looked up and met Jaime's gaze, lifting a hand in farewell. Jaime lifted his hand in response. _I'll see him again_, he promised himself, more a prayer than anything else. He'd made a similar promise to himself and whatever god might be listening for one other person. As he stood on the wall of Riverrun watching a small boat disappear into the night, taking with it the one person who made his eyes open when no one else could break through his Cersei-induced haze. The one person who made him dare to imagine he could be more than his past sins.

For all the many times he'd fought his way back to Cersei, he'd never prayed to make it back to her. He fought with everything in him, but no prayer ever crossed his lips. But Brienne… from the first time he'd left her at Harrenhall to the first time she'd left him in Kings Landing, his heart had alway looked back and prayed for a kind god to keep her safe. Tyrion and Brienne. The Imp and the Beast. And the truest loves in Jaime's life.

As Tyrion disappeared through the gate, Jaime's eyes drifted up to the wall to where Brienne stood in conversation with Beric Dondarrion. Jaime had crossed blades with the knight plenty of times during tourneys, before the knight lost his eye and likely a good portion of his mind, based on the Lord of Light nonsense he was spouting these days.

But Brienne… Her pale hair glinted in the weak winter sun. By this light, he could call her beautiful. His lady. He thought of how true those words were now. She was his and he was hers. He'd sworn an oath to her, and unlike the many he'd broken before it, this was one he'd give everything in his power to keep.

_I love her_, he thought. The idea slid into his mind with such ease that it unbalanced him. He'd spent so long never imagining that he could love a woman other than Cersei. Then, of all people, to fall in love with Brienne of Tarth. Even living, she was his ghost. In the years since their first meeting she had become a part of him. She had become his conscience. She whispered in his dreams even when she wasn't there to rule him in his waking hours. She was the only thing in his life louder than Cersei, louder than his father's wishes, louder than his tarnished honor and self-loathing.

She had left an indelible mark on him as they crossed the riverlands, first as guard and captive, then as fellow captives, and finally as something akin to friends. He wasn't sure when his regard for her had shifted to love. It didn't occur in a sudden flash of lightening. She'd grown on him, and despite his protestation, there was at least one thing he did like growing on him.

He smiled softly as he watched her. He'd never imagined a future with the woman he loved, because for so long, he loved a woman with whom a future was impossible. But with Brienne… She was a lady. She was highborn and honorable. She had a good family name. She was everything his father would have approved of. Tywin likely could have even found it in his heart to overlook her unusual stature and lifestyle if she was capable of inspiring Jaime to retake the title of heir to Casterly Rock.

Yes, Jaime imagined that Tywin would have been keen on a woman with enough backbone to not only pick up a sword but to master the artistry of swordplay. He also wouldn't have minded the idea of another generation for Lannister's with golden crowns.

The thought of children gave Jaime pause. Cersei had only just begun to show when he'd left King's Landing. By now, there would be no denying her pregnancy. Surely she'd done what she had to to pass the child off as Euron Greyjoy's bastard to keep the Iron Fleet.

Yet another child that would never recognize him as their father. The thought stung. Jaime had never let himself feel a particular attachment to the first three. It wasn't until his beautiful daughter died in his arms that he realized just how much he regretted not being a father to her.

When he learned that Cersei was again pregnant, it taught him to hope that he might have another chance. But Cersei was drunk with power. She would not give up the throne and she loved the power more than him or even the child growing within her belly. Perhaps she'd simply lost too much to see reason anymore.

Jaime hoped for the child's welfare, but he did not have high hopes.

Besides, if he was going to survive the battle to come, he couldn't afford to get distracted by things that were out of his control.

And if he wasn't going to survive the battle to come, he was sure as hell going to fuck Brienne of Tarth again before he died.

He took the steps down to the courtyard two at a time, intent on getting to _his lady _and pulling her away from Ser Beric. He didn't care where they went, so long as he could tear her cloths off and devour every inch of her.

"Ser Jaime!"

Jaime let out a slow, frustrated sigh and he stopped and looked back at the Baratheon bastard.

"Gendry, wasn't it?" Jaime asked, glancing back up at the wall, but Brienne was gone.

"Yes, ser." The muscular youth said with a nod. "I've done it. I made you a hand. I hoped you might test it out?"

Jaime's left hand instinctively went to the golden mockery of his once great sword hand. Reluctantly he nodded. He didn't want to get his hopes too high.

He followed the young man into the forge and slowly removed his golden appendage. He so rarely took it off, the sight of the stump was still alarming.

"Here it is." Gendry said, laying out a rudimentary metal hand that didn't look that different from the gold version, except with one, pivotal difference. At the point where palm became fingers, there was a hinge. "May I?"

Jaime considered the crude hand for a moment. It didn't look near as nice as the gold version, but this one wasn't fashions to look nice. It was fashioned to hold a sword. He nodded slowly.

He winced as Gendry fix the appendage to his stump. It was significantly more uncomfortable, but then again, the gold hand had only needed to sit there at the end of his stump, it hadn't needed to be useful.

"There." Gendry said, with a note of pride in his voice.

Jaime looked down at the new appendage. It felt foreign, but secure. He moved his arm. It lacked the mobility to be had with a true wrist, but there was nothing to be done about that.

"Hand me my sword." Jaime said.

Gendry slid the hilt of Widow's Wail into the hand and secured the grip. _One plus_, Jaime thought, _blood and sweat could not make a sword slip from this hand._

"What do you think?" Gendry asked.

"I think I need to find someone to test it out." Jaime said.

* * *

Brienne looked Jaime over with obvious skepticism. Jaime chuckled at her expression. The last time they'd crossed blade — not counting the previous night — he'd been shackled and nearly bested her. But he'd had his right hand then. He'd been a younger man then.

He hadn't loved her then.

"Are you sure about this, Jaime?" She asked. "Ser Jaime."

She blushed at her slip. She'd always been careful to respect his title, but that was before they were lovers. She'd been Lady Brienne and then Ser Brienne to him before as well, but now she was simply Brienne. _His _Brienne.

"Better now than in the thick of battle." He pointed out.

Seeing his logic, the great big woman nodded. Gods, he wanted to kiss her.

With Widow's Wail still fastened in his new right hand, he picked up a dragon glass blade with his left. For a moment, he felt a sting of nostalgia for the once great, now long dead Ser Arthur Dayne, how the great and honorable knight had wielded two swords with ease while most men struggled to find the dexterity to wield a single sword well.

Jaime had always admired the Sword of the Morning, never so much as when the great man had deigned to knight a young boy with grand ideas of being a knight. That was before Jaime knew all the down sides that came along with the title. He'd longed to be a knight nearly as great as Ser Arthur Dayne. Instead he'd become Kingslayer. Man without honor. He wondered if the day would come when Brienne would resent the mantle of knight he'd placed upon her. He thought not. Honor came so much easier to her.

"You ready?" Brienne asked, raising Oathkeeper. Oh, how he loved seeing that blade in her hand. It was more permanent a mark of their bond than any vow or promise that could be overlooked or forgotten. Words were just words, as Jaime's many broken oaths could attest.

"Ready," Jaime said, positioning his dual blades has he'd seen Ser Arthur Dayne do so many times.

They circled each other slowly, reminding Jaime of the time on the bridge, back when he did not know her strengths and weaknesses. He'd underestimated her then. That wouldn't happen now. He knew her abilities perfectly well. He wouldn't underestimate her. But that didn't mean he could beat her.

Oathkeeper sang through the air as Brienne attacked.

Jaime blocked the blow with both his blades and shouldered her back. Despite using his full weight, he only managed to send her back a couple steps. She steadied herself and regarded him for a moment.

"Not bad."

He moved then on the offensive. She blocked one sword and then the other. Their blades kissed and clanged as they found a rhythm. She was good, perhaps not better than Jaime had been in his prime. Certainly better than he was now. To his surprise, the realization didn't bother him. He was glad she was strong. He wanted her to be strong enough to make it through the long night. By the gods, the dead could have anyone else they'd like. Just not her.

He parried and thrusted, trying out moves he'd seen performed by Arthur Dayne years ago. Some worked well, others nearly cost him his head. Lucky for him Brienne was good enough to not inflict harm when she didn't want to. But he was doing well, better than he'd ever imagined fighting again.

In a slightly underhanded move, he knocked Oathkeeper from Brienne's hand and pinned her against the wall, his blades crossed against her throat.

"I bested you." He whispered, noticing a thin trail of blood where he'd accidentally nicked her. _All knights must bleed, Jaime. Blood is the seal of our devotion. _Ser Arthur Dayne had once spoken those words to him and they felt truer than ever now.

"You cheated." Brienne said.

"I did." Jaime admitted. "And I bested you." He pressed closer to her and he heard a hitch in her breath. "You're blushing, Ser Brienne."

She shot him a dirty look and he lowered his blades.

"The boy knows his trade." Brienne noted, nodding to the hand.

"That he does." Jaime had to agree. He sheathed the Dragon glass blade before bending down to pick up Oathkeeper. For a second, with both halves of the once great sword Ice in his grip, he felt a twinge of hatred for his entire family, for all the fucking high houses. They just bickered and killed each other over a chair that only madmen truly wanted to keep.

Shaking the thought from his head, he slid Oathkeeper into the scabbard at Brienne's hip and let his hand linger there, before sliding over the curves over her hips to the valley in between.

"Jaime… people might see." Brienne hissed, swatting his hand away.

"Then come with me where no one will see." He countered.

He expected her to reject the inappropriate suggestion, but after a long moment, she nodded. He removed Widow's Wail from his new hand and returned it to his hip and then led Brienne into the kitchens which looked abandoned after the departure of the majority of the women folk.

Looking around to be sure they were unobserved, Brienne pulled him into a dark pantry.

Jaime had her pressed up against the wall before she had time to react, not caring that anyone could walk by at any time. It was an out of the way enough corner. And who was to tell him he couldn't have her anywhere he damn well pleased. There was no shame in loving a good woman. There was no shame in the world knowing that she was his and he was hers, and the knowledge and freedom was intoxicating.

"What are you doing?" Brienne asked, her naive eyes wide with confusion and he looked forward to slowly wearing away that naivety.

Her confusion was swallowed up in a low moan as he slipped his hand into her trousers and began to tease her.

She closed her eyes, her brow furrowed at the unexpected sensation. "Jaime…"

He caught his name on her lips and languished in the taste of it. She was his, only his. Unlike Cersei who used sex as a weapon, even against him, there were no wiles in Brienne's affections. They were as pure as everything else about her.

Her hands went to his trousers and worked to free his manhood. He smirked against her lips. She might be innocent, but no one could say she wasn't a quick study.

He yanked down her trousers and pulled her down onto a sack of flour. He bent her over and drove into her with a hard thrust. She gasped and braced herself against the floor as he gripped her hips and drove into her again and again. She moaned loud enough he thought she might draw someone to them, but he didn't care and he intended to make sure she didn't either. Let the world know he was hers. The sounds she was making made him harder than ever. Even if someone did find them, he wouldn't be parted from her now, not for the world.

If either of them didn't make it through the night to come, he wanted the other to remember this moment always. If she outlived him, no man would ever do to her body what he would do now. She would compare any other man who she might let touch her this way to him and she would find them lacking. Anything less simply wouldn't do. He knew Renly had been her first love, but that had been the fancy of a girl who thought no man could ever truly want her. He was her real love, her only love. And he was going to make sure that she remember that she was his, and that he had loved her like she thought no man ever would, all the days of her life.

She moaned and writhed as he drove into her, his pace and intensity building. He should have been more gentle, she was new to this after all, but she was no delicate flower. She was made to be ridden hard and by the way she moved with him, he could tell she liked it.

When he felt her about to come, he slowed down, making her growl in protest. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her back so her body pressed against his. He wished he'd bothered to take off her tunic, because the fabric between their flesh was too much distance. He tangled his one hand in her hair and kissed at her neck, still moving inside her, but slow and deliberate.

"Jaime…" She moaned, turning her head enough to catch his lips with her own.

"Brienne," He murmured against her lips. "My beauty."

He felt her stiffen at the compliment so he kissed her harder until she relented, melting into his adoration. Once satisfied that she knew he meant every word, he let his thrusts build until she screamed out his name and he spilled his seed within her. Her body shook with the force of her climax and he held her close as they rode the waves together, both panting and breathless.

"You're mine." He whispered in her ear. "My beauty. Fuck anyone who says otherwise."

She turned around in his arms and looked into his eyes, with the most beautiful sapphires he'd ever seen. "I'd rather just fuck you."

He chuckled and pulled her in for another kiss.

* * *

**So I desperately wanted Jaime to have something more useful than a big gold paperweight for a hand, so I was doing some research and came across the Iron Hand Knight, a real amputee knight who had a replacement hand built that could hold a sword. So that was the inspiration behind the hand design. It's an interesting bit of history, if you feel like looking up the real life knight!**

**Otherwise, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed.**

**If you did, please review!**


	32. Chapter 32: Varys

Varys ignored his queen's wrathful gaze as he laid out the system of communication he'd developed over a long and sleepless night to the sparse remains of the war counsel. With the aid of Samwell Tarly, he had created several powders that, when poured over flames, caused the fire to burn a different color. Each color was intended to communicate a different message to the leaders of each division of the troops who would have a fire and powders of their own to confirm the message was received.

Additionally, Varys had assembled a new collection of little birds. Youths (old enough to want to fight and too young to be much good at it) would act as runners should the fire message go unanswered.

As much as Varys wasn't particularly fond of fire, he supposed that the flames owed him for consuming those parts of him that had been cut off so long ago. If the flames helped them to not only survive but win, he would consider that debt repaid.

Varys could see the divides, even among the remaining counsel and that did not bode well to him. Daenerys stood on the opposite side of the table from Jon, flanked on either side by Grey Worm and Jorah.

On the other side, Jon was flanked by Davos, Brienne, Jaime, and a small ways from them, stood Bronn. Varys considered asking Tyrion about the sudden appearance of the sell sword, but he could surmise the answer well enough on his own. He must have been sent to do a job, likely to kill Tyrion, Daenerys, Jaime, or Sansa or some combination thereof on behalf of Cersei, and was made a better offer. He was, after all, a man who was quite easy to read. He had the sort of mean cunning that came along with those willing to do anything for a price. Prostitutes and sell swords, two sides of the same coin. Clever enough to see a good deal when it was laid out before them.

"Any questions?" Varys asked.

"Just one." Daenerys said, her voice low and dangerous.

Varys had no doubt that the queen would have been able to see the brilliance of this plan—with each backup plan assigned a different color, and failsafes for those backup plans should the message go unreceived—if only the idea had come from someone besides Sansa Stark.

"Yes, my queen?" Varys asked.

"And what if all your careful plans and plots fail?" She asked, her eyes burning into Jon as she spoke, who wasn't even looking at her, too busy taking in the plan laid out before him.

"Then, pray tell me, how would we be any worse off than we were yesterday?" Varys asked.

Daenerys looked at him and in that moment he was quite sure that should he survive the battle for Winterfell, she would soon remedy that. She'd call it treason or something of the kind and ensure his end was swift and quiet. No sense in letting anyone get too worked up over the execution of one troublesome spider.

He had been warned, after all, by one of those dreadful red priestesses, that he would not die so long as he served the dragon queen. And he did not, in his heart, serve her any longer. He could see now, she was the wrong Targaryen to take the throne.

An honorable man and a wise woman.

That was precisely what the realm needed. That had, after all, always been Varys's aim, to leave the realm better off than he found it. And if it cost his life? Well, he didn't suppose that was such a steep price to pay to see the realm safely passed on to its true king.

"Well put." Davos said, nodding in approval. "So it's settled then?"

Varys raised a brow at the queen who inclined her head, her beautiful face twisted in an unpleasant expression.

* * *

"Everybody says your a wise man." Davos said as they walked the wall, inspecting the placement of each beacon. They had to be sure that each fire had a clear view of the tower from where Varys would be distributing orders and adjusting tactics.

"Move it to the left," Varys ordered one of the unsullied. Truth be told, he rather enjoyed being at liberty to bark orders at soldiers. His orders had usually always been whispered suggestions or blackmail. For once, it was pleasant to act without all the cloak and dagger and have his instructions obeyed out of respect rather than fear. He glanced over at the old smuggler. "And you're of a differing opinion, I take it?"

Davos chuckled slightly, "Just seems to me, a wise man would have gotten himself as far away from this city as possible."

"Yes, well, even a wise man recognizes that there comes a time when a stand must be made, wise or not." Varys considered the newly adjusted beacon. "Yes, that will do. Thank you."

The unsullied gave a stiff jerk of his head, but said nothing.

"So this is where you take your stand?" Davos asked. "Your queen didn't seem overly pleased about it."

"Our queen." Varys corrected.

"Everyone's queen." Davos half joked. Varys gave him a rather weary look. "It'll take good deal of convincing for another Targaryen to convince the rest of the Seven Kingdoms that she'd worth flipping the coin on. You think she's got it in her to convince everyone?"

"No one can convince everyone." Varys said as they started on toward the next beacon.

"But she convinced you?"

"A red priestess once told me that I would not die, so long as I served Daenerys Stormborn." Varys said.

Davos considered his words for a long moment. "So then it doesn't sound like you have much to fear from this war."

"So it would seem." Varys agreed with his words, though his mind and heart were elsewhere. In action, he had not, as of yet, betrayed his queen, but still...

Daenerys was beautiful. Daenerys was powerful. She had two grown dragons. But none of that qualified her to be a good queen. In fact, Varys had seen many other traits that indicated she would be the precise opposite.

"Is it just me, or is it a lot dark than it should be?" Davos asked, his attention turned to the skies.

Varys looked around at the dusky grayness that was claiming the early afternoon. He raised his hand to his eyes to shield them as he looked up to the sky. A darkness was spreading across the sun, turning the day to night.

"By the seven." Davos breathed, his unease nearly tangible. "The dead are coming."

Varys swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "No, my dear man, I do believe the dead are here."

* * *

**And thus ends Episode 2! Thank you so much for all those who have been with me through both episodes so far. All of your comments and encouragement have meant so much. I'll be posting a final "Next on Thrones" chapter after this next week to let you know when the new episode is posted, in case you are just following this story and not my profile. Fair warning... There will be many character deaths in the next episode. Hang on to your favorites and hope for the best!**

**Please review!**


	33. Next on Game of Thrones

**Next on Game of Thrones...**

_Tyrion POV: _

_He'd been prepared for the dead. He'd even been prepared for the sight of a wight dragon flying overhead, spouting icy fire._

_But not this._

**Daenerys POV:**

**He must have seen the hope in her face because he took a slight step back.**

**Her heart tightened in frustration at her own inclination to naivety. Why was it so easy to fall in love and so very difficult to fall out?**

_Davos POV:_

_"I don't give a fuck about your Lord of Light." Davos said. "I don't care what he wants."_

_"He cares about what you want." Melisandre said. "Snow must not fall in Winterfell this long night."_

**Brienne POV:**

**No… You don't get to choose who you love, she thought. But if she had the chance to do it over again and the choice with it, she'd love that man anyway.**

_Arya POV:_

_"When death comes, remember what you say to your god. Remember and don't look back. If you look back, you are lost."_

* * *

**A couple teasers for what's to come in episode three! Based on the feedback from the last time I did this, I gave the POV characters for each snippet to offer a little more context. To continue our tale, please check out 8x03 The Long Night. Chapter 1 is now up!**


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